When you came to my home, I saw you dead on Saturday. Your son is telling me how. He said I had to tell you for a greater justice.”
Jerry tossed the phone onto the seat beside him and put the truck in gear. Athletes call it being in the zone. Jerry felt a calmness he hadn’t felt in over a year.
A greater justice .
Of course. His son knew him. The people who hurt his baby boy were never found. Tonight they were sitting in a car, a block down on the right.
He drove the truck up to the red light. At the corner he turned toward the vehicle parked on the side of the road.
Even before the car’s doors had fully opened, the large truck was making contact with the grill, mounting the windshield and crushing all four men below the truck’s chassis.
Upon impact, Jerry’s head hit the truck’s windshield in an odd way, snapping his tense neck, and killing him almost instantly.
The Imprudent Son Returns
Perry Strall sat up slowly and eased his feet off the edge of the bed. He rubbed his neck and turned to stare at the empty spot where his wife should be.
The sight of the untouched side of the bed threatened to bring him to tears. Forty-five years of marriage. Arguments here and there. But never violence. Never violence. Until last night…
He wondered if Marge’s injuries were serious enough to keep her at the hospital for an extended period of time.
He whispered a silent prayer and closed his eyes. After a moment to reflect, he mouthed a soft apology to the empty room.
Once his eyes were open, he stepped from the bedroom, surprised to feel his arthritic joints weren’t performing their usual needlework on his nerves. He paused at the top of the stairs to swing his leg back and forth while holding the banister. His bum knee hadn’t felt this strong in many years.
With each step he descended, Perry felt like a new man. He made it to the kitchen and sat down at the table.
They’d had arguments, even downright nasty fights over the years, but not the kind of violence they experienced last night. Perry had never hit Marge before. It was an accident. He had no idea what came over him last night.
Maybe I’m like my wayward son?
Perry dismissed the thought. There was no way he was like his son. Elton was a killer. A murderer. Perry was the opposite. He could never hurt anyone.
Except my own wife.
The clock on the stove said it was 11:00am. Perry hadn’t realized how long he had sat at the table. Time was racing by and he was still clothed in his pajamas, having not eaten yet, nor used the bathroom. He stood from the table and considered calling the hospital. He’d do that, then get dressed and head down there.
He reached for the kitchen phone that sat on the wall, chest high, and heard a strange buzzing sound.
What the hell is that?
He went to touch the phone again and the buzzing sound returned.
The clock on the stove caught his eye. It read noon.
That’s impossible. How could an hour have sailed by while my only action was to stand from the chair and try to touch the phone?
Something strange was happening, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. At any given moment, he felt both watched, and the watcher. His normal aches and pains had disappeared, and time itself wasn’t cooperating.
At the age of seventy-seven, he wasn’t too aware to the ways of the mind, but he could feel that some kind of trick was being played on him. Never one to be a victim (except with Marge), he lifted his leg high and strode from the kitchen, intent on reaching his bedroom closet, getting dressed, and then heading to the hospital.
When he entered the hallway, he heard crying coming from above. He ran up, two stairs at a time and then listened to reassess where the crying was coming from.
His bedroom. It was the sound of his wife weeping, coupled with the rustle of a dresser drawer closing.
When did she get
Jerry tossed the phone onto the seat beside him and put the truck in gear. Athletes call it being in the zone. Jerry felt a calmness he hadn’t felt in over a year.
A greater justice .
Of course. His son knew him. The people who hurt his baby boy were never found. Tonight they were sitting in a car, a block down on the right.
He drove the truck up to the red light. At the corner he turned toward the vehicle parked on the side of the road.
Even before the car’s doors had fully opened, the large truck was making contact with the grill, mounting the windshield and crushing all four men below the truck’s chassis.
Upon impact, Jerry’s head hit the truck’s windshield in an odd way, snapping his tense neck, and killing him almost instantly.
The Imprudent Son Returns
Perry Strall sat up slowly and eased his feet off the edge of the bed. He rubbed his neck and turned to stare at the empty spot where his wife should be.
The sight of the untouched side of the bed threatened to bring him to tears. Forty-five years of marriage. Arguments here and there. But never violence. Never violence. Until last night…
He wondered if Marge’s injuries were serious enough to keep her at the hospital for an extended period of time.
He whispered a silent prayer and closed his eyes. After a moment to reflect, he mouthed a soft apology to the empty room.
Once his eyes were open, he stepped from the bedroom, surprised to feel his arthritic joints weren’t performing their usual needlework on his nerves. He paused at the top of the stairs to swing his leg back and forth while holding the banister. His bum knee hadn’t felt this strong in many years.
With each step he descended, Perry felt like a new man. He made it to the kitchen and sat down at the table.
They’d had arguments, even downright nasty fights over the years, but not the kind of violence they experienced last night. Perry had never hit Marge before. It was an accident. He had no idea what came over him last night.
Maybe I’m like my wayward son?
Perry dismissed the thought. There was no way he was like his son. Elton was a killer. A murderer. Perry was the opposite. He could never hurt anyone.
Except my own wife.
The clock on the stove said it was 11:00am. Perry hadn’t realized how long he had sat at the table. Time was racing by and he was still clothed in his pajamas, having not eaten yet, nor used the bathroom. He stood from the table and considered calling the hospital. He’d do that, then get dressed and head down there.
He reached for the kitchen phone that sat on the wall, chest high, and heard a strange buzzing sound.
What the hell is that?
He went to touch the phone again and the buzzing sound returned.
The clock on the stove caught his eye. It read noon.
That’s impossible. How could an hour have sailed by while my only action was to stand from the chair and try to touch the phone?
Something strange was happening, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. At any given moment, he felt both watched, and the watcher. His normal aches and pains had disappeared, and time itself wasn’t cooperating.
At the age of seventy-seven, he wasn’t too aware to the ways of the mind, but he could feel that some kind of trick was being played on him. Never one to be a victim (except with Marge), he lifted his leg high and strode from the kitchen, intent on reaching his bedroom closet, getting dressed, and then heading to the hospital.
When he entered the hallway, he heard crying coming from above. He ran up, two stairs at a time and then listened to reassess where the crying was coming from.
His bedroom. It was the sound of his wife weeping, coupled with the rustle of a dresser drawer closing.
When did she get
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