| Mystery and Crime Fiction posted November 6, 2010 |
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Contest entry
The Phone Call
by Sasha
Long ago, I stopped thinking about that horrific night in 1943. The truth of my innocence or guilt is no longer an issue. Waiting for today, for ten years, I now accept my fate with a sense of relief. I look forward to the peace that death will bring and the smile on God's face when He looks into my eyes. I have much to answer for; however, the death of my father is not on the list.
I sit in the chair, my arms, legs, and chest secured with leather straps. The room becomes silent as the warden reads from a sheet of paper, but I hear nothing until he asks if I have any last words to say.
Before answering, I think of my father, a cruel drunk who dispensed discipline with his fists. The occasional phone call to the police by an anonymous neighbor, was nothing more than an invitation to visit a fellow officer. His sigh of frustration and a well-rehearsed phrase, "She's a whore just like her mother", carved my reputation in stone as a defiant teenager headed for trouble . No one ever asked me to tell my side of the story. His reputation as a drunk, trigger-happy cop, who could not control his temper never entered the conversation.
The night he died, we had another fight that ended as it always did: a bloody nose, a cut lip, and me stomping out the door swearing, "The next time you touch me I will kill you."
When I returned, I found him dead on the kitchen floor covered in blood. Foolishly, I picked up the gun lying beside him. The neighbors repeated my threat to the police and my fingerprints on the gun were all the evidence needed. Forensics eliminated any possibility of suicide. They had their killer. There was no need to look any further.
The trial lasted three days and the jury came back in less than an hour with a guilty verdict. My court appointed attorney exhausted all appeals for a new trial. Now my fate rests on a phone call from the Governor, commuting my sentence of death to life without parole. I am tired and I am ready. Unlike my attorney, I pray the answer is "No."
Still waiting for my response to his question, the warden takes hold of my hand then nods, a signal it is time to open the curtains. Although I do not recognize the small number of spectators, I wonder who they are and why they would want to watch me die. I knew they were not here for my father. Other than me, he had no family, no friends, only enemies. I also wonder if the real killer is still alive. Did he feel remorse knowing I was about to pay the price for his actions? Not knowing the circumstances surrounding that night, I knew I would have to wait a little longer for the answer. At this moment, it no longer matters.
I look at the warden and nod. "I did not kill my father. I no longer care what you, the court, or the public think. I am content knowing God and I know the truth."
All eyes, except mine, focus on the red telephone on the table. Everyone holds their breath as they wait for the phone call that does not come.
I now know, God does answer our prayers.
Flash Fiction contest entry
Long ago, I stopped thinking about that horrific night in 1943. The truth of my innocence or guilt is no longer an issue. Waiting for today, for ten years, I now accept my fate with a sense of relief. I look forward to the peace that death will bring and the smile on God's face when He looks into my eyes. I have much to answer for; however, the death of my father is not on the list.
I sit in the chair, my arms, legs, and chest secured with leather straps. The room becomes silent as the warden reads from a sheet of paper, but I hear nothing until he asks if I have any last words to say.
Before answering, I think of my father, a cruel drunk who dispensed discipline with his fists. The occasional phone call to the police by an anonymous neighbor, was nothing more than an invitation to visit a fellow officer. His sigh of frustration and a well-rehearsed phrase, "She's a whore just like her mother", carved my reputation in stone as a defiant teenager headed for trouble . No one ever asked me to tell my side of the story. His reputation as a drunk, trigger-happy cop, who could not control his temper never entered the conversation.
The night he died, we had another fight that ended as it always did: a bloody nose, a cut lip, and me stomping out the door swearing, "The next time you touch me I will kill you."
When I returned, I found him dead on the kitchen floor covered in blood. Foolishly, I picked up the gun lying beside him. The neighbors repeated my threat to the police and my fingerprints on the gun were all the evidence needed. Forensics eliminated any possibility of suicide. They had their killer. There was no need to look any further.
The trial lasted three days and the jury came back in less than an hour with a guilty verdict. My court appointed attorney exhausted all appeals for a new trial. Now my fate rests on a phone call from the Governor, commuting my sentence of death to life without parole. I am tired and I am ready. Unlike my attorney, I pray the answer is "No."
Still waiting for my response to his question, the warden takes hold of my hand then nods, a signal it is time to open the curtains. Although I do not recognize the small number of spectators, I wonder who they are and why they would want to watch me die. I knew they were not here for my father. Other than me, he had no family, no friends, only enemies. I also wonder if the real killer is still alive. Did he feel remorse knowing I was about to pay the price for his actions? Not knowing the circumstances surrounding that night, I knew I would have to wait a little longer for the answer. At this moment, it no longer matters.
I look at the warden and nod. "I did not kill my father. I no longer care what you, the court, or the public think. I am content knowing God and I know the truth."
All eyes, except mine, focus on the red telephone on the table. Everyone holds their breath as they wait for the phone call that does not come.
I now know, God does answer our prayers.
I sit in the chair, my arms, legs, and chest secured with leather straps. The room becomes silent as the warden reads from a sheet of paper, but I hear nothing until he asks if I have any last words to say.
Before answering, I think of my father, a cruel drunk who dispensed discipline with his fists. The occasional phone call to the police by an anonymous neighbor, was nothing more than an invitation to visit a fellow officer. His sigh of frustration and a well-rehearsed phrase, "She's a whore just like her mother", carved my reputation in stone as a defiant teenager headed for trouble . No one ever asked me to tell my side of the story. His reputation as a drunk, trigger-happy cop, who could not control his temper never entered the conversation.
The night he died, we had another fight that ended as it always did: a bloody nose, a cut lip, and me stomping out the door swearing, "The next time you touch me I will kill you."
When I returned, I found him dead on the kitchen floor covered in blood. Foolishly, I picked up the gun lying beside him. The neighbors repeated my threat to the police and my fingerprints on the gun were all the evidence needed. Forensics eliminated any possibility of suicide. They had their killer. There was no need to look any further.
The trial lasted three days and the jury came back in less than an hour with a guilty verdict. My court appointed attorney exhausted all appeals for a new trial. Now my fate rests on a phone call from the Governor, commuting my sentence of death to life without parole. I am tired and I am ready. Unlike my attorney, I pray the answer is "No."
Still waiting for my response to his question, the warden takes hold of my hand then nods, a signal it is time to open the curtains. Although I do not recognize the small number of spectators, I wonder who they are and why they would want to watch me die. I knew they were not here for my father. Other than me, he had no family, no friends, only enemies. I also wonder if the real killer is still alive. Did he feel remorse knowing I was about to pay the price for his actions? Not knowing the circumstances surrounding that night, I knew I would have to wait a little longer for the answer. At this moment, it no longer matters.
I look at the warden and nod. "I did not kill my father. I no longer care what you, the court, or the public think. I am content knowing God and I know the truth."
All eyes, except mine, focus on the red telephone on the table. Everyone holds their breath as they wait for the phone call that does not come.
I now know, God does answer our prayers.
 Recognized |
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574 word count. I am still new at flash fiction. Practice makes for perfect, or so they say. I have always wondered what it would be like to be sentenced to death for a crime I did not commit. I intentionally chose a period of time when a young person could and often did receive the death penalty and a time when abuse was not a viable excuse for murder. Also, where would a child/teenager with a reputation for being a troublemaker go for help i those days?
I want to thank belgrano for her amazing painting The Kingdom of Heaven.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. I want to thank belgrano for her amazing painting The Kingdom of Heaven.
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