The Murder(4)
Author:John Hansen

    It was all about me. My father always wanted me to attend law schooland become a successful lawyer like him. I never wanted to but as theintensity of his wishes bore down upon me, I was compelled toacquiesce to them. My father had mapped out my whole life for me andI was unwillingly dragged along with it. Harvard, Yale Law, associateat his firm, partner, senior partner... That was his plan. Myfather’s ultimate goal was for me to partner with him in his firmand to posthumously carry on the business. It was utterly unfair thathe chose my path for me and we all knew it – my mother, my fatherand I – but because of my irascible temper as a result of hiswearisome job, the subject was not debatable. It was all about me.My mother eventually became sick of his dominance and demanded thatmy father allow me to choose my own path. She informed him that I wasmy own person and that I could do as I please. Insulted and driven byan acute fury, my father grabbed a nearby kitchen knife and killedher. Murdered her. “Don’t tell me what to do, bitch,” heshouted as she fell to the floor. It was all about me. Mylife, my future led to my mother’s death.

    My lips twitched with anger as I watched my father engulf his fifthbeer, slam it to the wood table, exhale pleasantly, wipe the alcoholfrom his whiskers and demand that the surly waitress bring him asixth. My nose wrinkled at his giddy excitement and I clenched myfists. My fingers danced across the cool metal of the knife in mypocket and I shivered with a sadistic delight. That bastard killed mymother.

    The waitress brought him a sixth beer, gave a sharp, quizzical glanceat the five empty glasses but hastily disappeared without interest inpursuing the inquiry.

    I’m not certain how my father could possibly have gotten away withmurder without me or anyone knowing about it but he somehow did. Ihad honestly never once viewed him as a suspect. Until now. Ifingered the knife again to assure it was still there. The icy hiltseemed to implore me to use it. I sighed, closed my eyes and barelyrestrained the impulse.

    It was only this morning when I first learned of my father’sheinous deed. I had been feverishly working on my mother’s murderfor over fifteen years; I didn’t find much of importance untilabout a week ago when I obtained our wealthy neighbor’s securitycameras per request. After sifting through various video feeds, Istumbled upon one aimed at our kitchen window. It showed my fatherand mother quarreling about my future. They became engaged in aheated debate resulting in my jaded father slapping my mother acrossthe face and informing her to “shut up, bitch!” But my mother,enraged, refused to simply ‘shut up’. She thrust her index fingeragainst his brawny chest and whispered with the sadness of a womanovercome by adversity and abuse, “Now, you listen to me. You canbeat me all you want but you may NEVER lay a hand on my boy…”

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