A Cry In The Night

As he opens the door, his eyes tell me that I am not the person he was expecting, but I will do. I am another addictive substance like alcohol, or the truth that so tortures him. He offers me a drink, and I decline. We move to the bedroom, and get down to business quickly.

He pours himself a drink from the small bar: bourbon and ice, carries it to the rumpled sheets, and lies to watch leather and denim pulled away from my golden, muscular skin. The glass trembles in his hand, the ice cubes going tink, tink, tink. I hate them. I hate him. I hate myself for consenting to do this.

I finish undressing and crawl onto the sloppy, unmade bed. He watches every curve, every move, as happy as a pig rutting in mud. The ice trembles in the glass harder as I unzip his pants and go down on him. The noise becomes louder and louder, until my mouth is filled with his product and the glass spills the remains of his drink against the sheets.

He looks sad at the loss of his booze. I feel furious. This job could have been done by a quarter hooker from the streetcorner.

A pounding sounds at the door. "Stay here," he whispers softly. "I'll need you when this is done."

Their voices echo up the stairs as I dress and withdraw the gun from the inside pocket of my jacket. I walk quietly to the bathroom, and soon his footsteps follow me.

He hangs his head in defeat, and when he looks up he is shocked, as much at the hate in my eyes as the fact that I am dressed.

A single gunshot is simple in this mood, but as I speed away, I swear I can hear a voice cry in anguish, "Dad!"