And so he lay, writhing on the floor.
The daughter could barely comprehend
what had transpired. She knew she walked in with the boy a few
moments before – that the two of them were laughing all the way up
the stairs to the family house. She knew that, once she had open the
door, her father had been waiting. She knew that her father said
something, but wasn't exactly sure what it was. And now the father
held the pistol in his right hand; and there lay her partner,
writhing on the floor.
She screamed. It was her first
instinct. Her second was to run to the phone to call the police. Her
father held her back, trying to get her to stay calm. She slapped
him, and while he was dazed ran for the phone anyway. She had barely
gotten on the line with the responder when her father pulled the cord
on the phone and ended the call. All this time, the daughter's
boyfriend lay lying, writhing on the floor.
Now a vengeful fury built up in her.
She pushed the father away, calling him terrible things at the top of
her lungs. Perhaps he deserved it, perhaps not. After all, none of us
know exactly why he shot the boy. Not even the daughter knows why.
All we know is that he stays laying, writing on the bloody floor.
It was at this point that the daughter
had given up all hope. She, much like the boy, collapsed to the
ground, crying in a neat corner of the room. Her father did not
bother counseling her. Instead, he looked toward the cause of this
commotion; the boy, who no longer was writing, but lay motionless.
Motionless on the bloody floor.
