LAST EDITED ON 02-01-03 AT 03:54 AM (EST)Wow I have ten minutes left! Being the ultimate WSC2 DAW I will post another first draft. It still needs to be polished, and likely will end up much longer than Flash Fiction, but for now it qualifies.
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Amy Rigby gazes aimlessly out the tinted window of the smoke-filled cafe, momentarily oblivious to the urban squalor awaiting her on the other side. She toys with the plate of half eaten Fettucine Alfredo trying to create a happy face. “Happy Birthday Amy” she whispers to herself, dropping the fork, then burying the smile in a sea of napkins. She sighs as she lights a cigarette.
It had been nearly four years since Amy left her middle class suburban home. Nearly four years since she read bedtime stories to her baby brother Josh, caressing his blonde locks as she spun fairy tales of hope; ending each story with a kiss on the forehead and “I love Josh.” She fondly recalls how Josh would always reply I love you more. Josh would be in second grade now and Amy wonders if she would even recognize her own brother. Amy reminisces about her faithful dog Lucky, the Golden Retriever, and how he used to nudge her chest when he wanted to play, how he always made her feel secure; and lastly the irony of his name. Lucky was 10 years old when Amy left home, and she wonders if he is still alive. Amy takes another puff from her cigarette remembering the first time she ever smoked. It was with her best friend Becky on her 15th birthday at a Smashing Pumpkins concert. She wonders if Becky is still dating Mike, the sophomore who played in the Marching Band; the one who wanted to be a graphic artist. Perhaps they went to the prom together.
Amy thinks about her Mother the most. She recalls the frequent shopping trips, the mess they used to make in the kitchen, and especially the long talks they shared. A tear streams down Amy’s face as she takes another drag from the cigarette. She remembers seeing the bruises on her mother’s face, hearing the screams, the sounds of glass shattering down the hall. And every morning her mother cooking breakfast with a smile as if nothing had happened. As Amy grew older she became wiser and frequently questioned her mother. Why? Why do you put up with him mother, she would ask. They should take Josh and Lucky and move far away. Her mother would smile and say Amy’s father was just an independent man with a bit of a temper. Her mother would spin tales of how they met, their honeymoon, how much they loved one another. He was a good man she said, and she would never give up on him. Amy knew better. She understood that her mother was afraid. Dependent. Amy realized her mother would never leave, and she blames herself for what happened next.
Amy’s father was a respected businessman, a pillar of the community. No one was aware of what happened behind the walls of that quiet suburban home, nor were they aware of Mr. Rigby’s nefarious ways. Mrs. Rigby certainly wasn’t going to tell. Amy on the other hand was less trusting and grew more rebellious and confrontational with each passing year, much to her father’s chagrin. After one particular atrocious beating of her mother, Amy, at the tender age of 15, confronted her father. This further fueled his anger, and for the first time Amy was on the receiving end of one of his vicious beatings. Her mother intervened. It was one thing to strike her, another to attack one of her children. Mr. Rigby didn’t like his authority being challenged but instead of more violence, he simply grabbed his coat and walked out the door. For one night there would be peace, but Amy knew her father was a vengeful man. He was that way with his business, and he was that way with his family.
Three days later Mrs. Rigby left home to run some errands; the grocery store and a trip to the hairdresser. What happened next shook this sleepy suburban town. They said it was a random drive-by shooting but Amy knew better. The police didn’t believe her story, leaving Amy no choice but to leave; afterall her father was a dangerous man. She packed some clothes, gave Lucky a hug, and kissed her brother goodbye.
Amy glances at her watch, pays the tab and is own her way. The motel room she booked is only a few blocks away. After nearly four years she had become immune to the panhandlers, the drug dealers, and the litter strewn streets. Twenty-five miles from home seemed half a world away. But she had work to do. Just another trick. Nearly four years; her innocence as a faded as well-worn blue jeans. A thousand empty faces returned by a thousand blank stares. Maybe one day she would find a new life on a quaint suburban street like the one she was raised on, but for now she had work to do.
She opens the tarnished doorway to her motel room, emptying the contents of her purse onto the bed as she lights another cigarette. He should be here any minute. She freshens her face, then sighs. Moments later a knock on the door. It must be him.
Amy opens the door to reveal a handsome man, about 50 years old with graying temples, wearing a freshly pressed Armani suit. Just as she expected. He enters and Amy locks the door behind him. He nods, reaching for his wallet, paying little attention to the young woman standing a few feet away. Just another business transaction. “How much,” he asks.
“Hello Daddy,” Amy smiles as she raises her gun.
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