The Last Customer by Daniel Coughlin Page A

When Cherri’s stepfather, Garry, was done with her, he’d go to the kitchen, grab a beer from the fridge, and sit with Dawn. They would remain silent, but Gary would stare at her. The stare, Cherri thought, was to confirm that Dawn knew what would happen if she ever told anyone about what was happening in her daughter’s bedroom. The rest of the world wouldn’t understand Garry’s needs. That’s how he explained it to Dawn. She never bought into the argument, but she was powerless against him and her rage was silent. She hadn’t the nerve to do anything about it. She couldn’t.
                Cherri shared only one bonding moment with her mother. It was the night that Dawn killed the vile son of a bitch.
    Garry came home from work. It was winter and he was drunk. He stumbled to the bedroom, shrugging his shoes off as he tripped down the hallway. After he undressed, he made his way into Cherri’s bedroom. Dawn was waiting for him in Cherri’s room with a Remington double barrel shotgun. The gun was neatly polished. Garry flew out of his boots. The lead slug that Dawn unloaded into his chest sent blood splattering across the walls. Garry hit the wall and slid to the floor near the door, leaving a trail of crimson gore. The skin around his sucking chest wound sizzled from the heat of the round.
                Cherri hadn’t been scared. In all honesty, she was glad and relieved. Gary would never have her again. Cherri felt her mother’s humility. She watched her mother take a seat on the edge of the bed. The sad look in her eyes suddenly gleamed and her mouth perched into a smile. She’d forgiven herself. She quickly turned away from Cherri and lifted the barrel of the shotgun to her lips. Her eyes, again, turned toward Cherri. She attempted to say, “I’m sorry” and then wrapped her thumb over the trigger. Her face caved in. She punched the contents of her head across Cherri’s bedroom. Some of her brain matter stuck to the ceiling.
    Cherri stared at her dead mother, lost. After a few seconds, she spit on Garry and kicked his lifeless corpse, furiously.
    When she finally settled down, Cherri inspected the grotesque scene. Broken skull fragments peppered the floor, wall, windows, and drapes. Leaning down, she gazed into the wide hole ripped through Gary’s chest. For a moment, she thought she could see his heart. It looked black.
    Once her fascination was curbed, she became frightened.
    What came next?
    She would have to call the police and explain what had happened.
    A short investigation ensued and not much occurred. The police took Cherri at her word. At one point, they’d asked her if she pulled the trigger, but they didn’t pursue her further once she said ‘no’.   Cherri wasn’t capable of murder. She was a scared little girl and the crime scene had told the story.
                Within a year, Cherri was shuttled into foster care and that was where she met Timmy. He was nice, yet he had a violent temper, but nobody’s perfect. Cherri and Timmy became friends. During social time, they would play board games. They would talk until lights out or until the foster care givers sent them to their state sanctioned dorm rooms. Sometimes they would get split up and sent to random foster homes, with random families.
    Timmy would run away. Sometimes, the family he stayed with would prove to be unreliable. But, Timmy always found Cherri, no matter where he was sent. He’d get kicked out or run away, and he’d find her. After a few years, he was finally sent to a juvenile facility and they didn’t see each other for a long time.
                A few years later, Cherri landed a job as a waitress. It wasn’t much. She worked at a small bar and grille, a road stop in Clyman —a map-dot town in southern Wisconsin. Timmy happened to pop in for a burger and fries. It was pure coincidence, with both of them reading it as fate.
    The burger was fine, the fries were good, but