I’m not sure if I’m just over-tired or cranky at being back at work.
Either way, my goal of 2k words today is looking especially daunting.
So, in order to at least have done something productive today, here’s the opening to “Daddy Issues.”
My father named me Colt, after his favorite pistol. It should go without saying that he was expecting a son.
It’s this same pistol that I press to the back of his head, holding it as steady as I can in two shaking hands. His entire body goes still, but there’s a vein throbbing in the side of his neck. Slowly, he holds his hands up, and turns around in his seat to see who his executioner is.
His fingers twitch almost imperceptibly when he realizes that it’s his daughter holding a gun barely an inch from his eyeball. We’ve finally reached the inevitable moment, and somehow I’ve come out on top, the one in control, instead of the one staring down the barrel of a .45.
His eyes are watery and out of focus as he narrows them at me, leaning his shoulder against the stained couch cushions for support. I walk around to stand in front of him.
“I win, Dad.” But I don’t feel like I’ve won. I feel broken, pieced together and filthy. My right arm is barely two days out of its cast, and I’ve got a lifetime of bruises and broken bones as justification for what I’m about to do. I pull the slide back, both feeling and hearing the metallic click that means a bullet in the chamber. All my other options are gone.