Father's Day Part 1 & 2 of 3 by John Karnay

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SUMMARY: A re-draft of my story published in Brown's College Journal about 14 years ago. It's about a lethal, desperate woman named Veronica. Itís a tale of vengeance, redemption and how neither is completely fulfilling. This is Part 1 &2 of 3.

Father's Day

I stand hunched in the thick summer evening mist. Raindrops turn to steam as they plummet to the blacktop. The June air is no longer able to bear the burden of the night's humidity. Bloated clouds cry musty tears onto the city. With my hands folded under my chin, shoulders firmly planted on the damp rotting wood of the windowsill, I slowly move the scope and peer out into the night.

With my right eye pressed tightly against the cold metal ring of the scope, I can see him, the man I'm going to kill. He's a short, portly man in his early thirties. He sits on the edge of the bed in the motel room across the street with his pants around his ankles. His face looks all too familiar, like a hundred other men I've had the pathetic pleasure of meeting in these circumstances. All of them weak, all of them just like my father.
The leggy red head with the impossible breasts kneels in front of him at the foot of the bed. She's at least ten years his junior and working her way to a nose full of blow. She does her duty, like a janitor mopping a floor. Her head bobs mechanically. His legs spasm and his lips contort. He asks God for help like a sinner finding faith on his deathbed. He doesn't even realize how close he is to being dead.
I've been watching this clown for the past 2 days. I watched him pick her up at the club, four hours ago. I observed the way she threw herself at him as soon as he brought out the coke. It's a sad expensive addiction. Wasting her life as an object. Doing anything in her power to be treated like the possession of the first man that will provide for her habit. I can remember almost being like that, and I hate her for it. He's no better though. I watched him date rape the last girl he picked up when she declined to entertain him. I would have punched his ticket then but I didn't have a clean shot. I was afraid the blonde waif might have called the cops. I gave her too much credit. At least this red head is committed to her cause though.
Watching them together makes my stomach turn. I walk away from the scope towards the decrepit, full-length mirror directly across from the table in the center of the room. Examining my reflection, I adjust the shoe polish black hair from my face and rub my hands on my crimson cotton skirt to dry my palms. I would never be caught dead dressed like this anymore. I needed to blend back at the club. The long stilettos heels and caked on make up are things I avoid unless necessary. I must admit, that like this, my resemblance to my mother is uncanny. My father always told me I was just like her. He never meant it as a compliment though, more as a threat.
I can still remember my earliest memory of him. He was driving a cab in the city and working for a small time bookkeeper taking gambling action on the side. He was an angry, drunk little man that thought far too highly of himself. He never realized what he had in his life. He cared more about the bottle then he did his family.
I was three years old, the Christmas he arrived home drunk. As a present he knocked out two of my mother's teeth.

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