Twenty-five
When the hand clasped Mort Braggs' wrist and pulled
him through the black hole, he spun once through a familiar room and
landed on his back on coffee table, bulldozing a bowl of popcorn, an
ashtray, and a half empty bottle of liquor to the floor. His father
loomed over him, looking like death itself minus the black shroud and
scythe.
Gunther Braggs hadn't shaved in a week. Rheumy,
hate-filled eyes glared down at Mort. His disheveled gray hair looked
thinner. Patches of mottled scalp gleamed in the fluorescent light from
the kitchen.
"You stole from me!" Gunther roared. "My own flesh
and blood!" Gunther fetched his wallet from his back pocket. He flipped
it open and shoved the empty compartment into Mort's face.
"I never!" Mort cried out, knowing he'd have to make
his self-defense loud and quick to avoid a beating.
"I had money!"
Mort shook his head grimly. "No so late in the
month, Pops. You spent it all by now. Drank it up. Besides, how would
you know how much money you had left? You don't even know what day of the
week it is."
Gunther smacked him across the face with the leather
wallet. Mort endured the sting, but made no effort to get up. He'd only
get knocked down again.
"Worthless kid," Gunther said. He paced restlessly.
"You think you'd be out making a living by now."
"I'm still in school, Pops. I haven't flunked out
yet."
Gunther eyed him in displeasure. "You're not that
stupid, considering who your parents were. You young punks. All of you.
You had no right."
"I didn't kill her," Mort said.
Gunther glared at him in ill-suppressed rage.
"I didn't do it! I was just a kid when it happened!"
Confusion muddled Gunther's anger. He paced again in
tight circles, muttering to himself, wiping his sparse hair back against
his scalp. He started moving faster, working himself into a frenzy. Mort
gave a moan of anguish, knowing what came next.
Gunther reached down with wild eyes and gritted
teeth. He yanked Mort to his feet, backhanded him and sent him sliding on
his behind across the floor. Mort slid into the kitchen table. He ducked
a boot swung clumsily in his direction, rolled to his feet, and ran toward
the apartment door.
"You killed her!"
Mort froze in place. He could take just about any
form of abuse Gunther Braggs could dish out. But that accusation was
going too far. He couldn't listen to it for the rest of his life.
Gunther smacked him across the back of his head with
his hand. "I told her we didn't need a kid. Couldn't afford the
distraction. Would she listen he me? No! She gets herself pregnant,
messes over her training, then thinks she can go back out on the street
worrying about a screaming brat that's kept her up half the night."
Mort clenched his fists at his side and could do
nothing about the tears that streamed down his face. It was the first
time he had ever cried in front of his father, but their relationship had
deteriorated about as far as it could go.
Gunther gawked at him in amazement. "You ought to
bawl about it. You lost a mother you hardly knew. You know what I lost,
you young punk? I lost the only reason I got to live. We were married
fifteen years before you came along. She was too old to have a kid. It
was all I ever heard, about how much she wanted a kid before it was too
late. She went behind my back to get one, you know. I would have made
her get rid of it."
"But it wasn't my fault!"
"Wasn't your fault?" Gunther swung at him and
missed. "You might as well have pulled the trigger! Might as well kill
me too while you're at it. Put an old man out of his misery. Do you
think it's over yet? Only a matter of time before you kill someone or get
thrown in jail. Maybe it was better she did get herself killed so she
doesn't have to see this."
Gunther picked up the fallen
bottle and guzzled what was left of his whiskey. He dashed the empty
bottle against a wall. "What am I going to do without something to
drink?"
Gunther started pacing again,
pulling at his hair and looking panic-stricken.
It had never been this bad before. Without alcohol
to drown out his grieving, Gunther would get himself arrested, committed,
or worse. While Gunther ranted and raved incoherently in the background,
Mort was caught in a gathering storm of fear, anger, and desperation.
Through the open door of the bedroom, Gunther's dresser drawer stood
open. His pistol lay in plain view on top. Gunther had been playing with
it again, contemplating suicide, or murder.
A resin chair flew past Mort's head and bounced off
the door. "Get out of here! Go get me something to drink! Do something
worthwhile for once in your miserable existence, cause I'm kicking your
butt out! You think you got a life here? You don't got a life nowhere,
you worthless young punk..."
Gunther's tirade went on and on. His hatred pounded
at Mort, stabbing him through his heart and mind with words that wounded
as fatally as swords and bullets. Inside, Mort was bleeding to death.
Events faltered, like a movie projector skipping
frames. Mort was puzzled by the gun in his hand. How had that happened?
Gunther followed him into to the bedroom, filling his field of vision with
his twisted hatred. Mort choked on the stench and the utter malice that
spilled forth. More to silence the ugliness than to throw it back in
Gunther's face, he brought the gun up and pulled the trigger.
The gun boomed and threw Mort back against the
dresser. Gunther staggered all the way through the living room before his
legs gave way and dropped him inert to the floor.
Mort tossed the gun at the crumpled body, knowing he
had just ended his own life as well. He ran to the door to the apartment
and encountered a jagged hole of darkness. A faint memory of what lay on
the other side lingered, offering a promise of something better that
eluded him moment by moment.
Another explosion from behind him struck him in the
back with the force of a freight train and propelled him forward and
through the darkness.
