stand, his vision all spotty and he knows he needs to end this before he bleeds to death, before the bullet that went into his skull ruins all his wiring. He looks at his family for strength again but they won’t meet his eyes. He scowls, hurt deeper than he’s ever hurt, and thinks, I am doing this for you , don’t you understand?
His wife says, It doesn’t change a thing. It doesn’t make you a better man .
She was always scared of this side of him. The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. So gentle and so violent. So much like his father in so many ways.
Fist blinks. Shakes his head. Bats roar by and the night closes in, wrapping everyone up in its arms. He believes this is right. This is what must be done. Even his father, who he knows doesn’t respect him, agrees that this is it. This is justice. Ugly and stark.
He kicks the punk’s legs out from under him and wraps his hands around Jesus’ throat and squeezes as hard as he can. The kid squirms and bucks against him hard for a moment and Fist can feel the life going out of him even as it flees himself, and he watches his family and Bianca who studies him with those blind eyes and he realizes how much like her he’s been—how helpless, how much he’s needed direction and support, never quite as strong as anybody needed him to be, or as hard as he thought he was, and he cries and squeezes harder, holding on to the thing that taught him the hardest lesson he’s ever learned...to look inside. To appreciate the little things.
The clock ticks…
His wife is outside the cart, holding their daughters hand, her eyes brimming with tears. Her lips quiver. She holds one arm out to him but it takes all of the strength Fist has to let go of the corpse he’s holding and stand. Karen wipes a tear from his cheek and whispers, It’s okay. We’ve got forever .
He stumbles into her and she holds him and holds their daughter and Bianca clings to his hand and he wants to get her out to the car and feed her because she has to be starving, but he collapses. The ceiling hovers way, way up there in the blackness, and he feels blood streaking from his forehead and back into his hair.
Karen sobs and holds his hand.
He whispers, “Don’t cry. We got this.”
Bethany prays for him to be okay, then she prays they’ll all be okay.
He says, “I love you. Don’t worry, Daddy’s okay.”
Bianca’s tiny feet pitter-patter across concrete, until she climbs onto his chest and curls up over his heart.
He rails against the blackness dragging him down, trying to hold on for just a few more seconds, but wind roars through the building and his body shudders, and he cries, “I’m sorry for...”
His wife says, It doesn’t change a thing. It doesn’t make you a better man .
She was always scared of this side of him. The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. So gentle and so violent. So much like his father in so many ways.
Fist blinks. Shakes his head. Bats roar by and the night closes in, wrapping everyone up in its arms. He believes this is right. This is what must be done. Even his father, who he knows doesn’t respect him, agrees that this is it. This is justice. Ugly and stark.
He kicks the punk’s legs out from under him and wraps his hands around Jesus’ throat and squeezes as hard as he can. The kid squirms and bucks against him hard for a moment and Fist can feel the life going out of him even as it flees himself, and he watches his family and Bianca who studies him with those blind eyes and he realizes how much like her he’s been—how helpless, how much he’s needed direction and support, never quite as strong as anybody needed him to be, or as hard as he thought he was, and he cries and squeezes harder, holding on to the thing that taught him the hardest lesson he’s ever learned...to look inside. To appreciate the little things.
The clock ticks…
His wife is outside the cart, holding their daughters hand, her eyes brimming with tears. Her lips quiver. She holds one arm out to him but it takes all of the strength Fist has to let go of the corpse he’s holding and stand. Karen wipes a tear from his cheek and whispers, It’s okay. We’ve got forever .
He stumbles into her and she holds him and holds their daughter and Bianca clings to his hand and he wants to get her out to the car and feed her because she has to be starving, but he collapses. The ceiling hovers way, way up there in the blackness, and he feels blood streaking from his forehead and back into his hair.
Karen sobs and holds his hand.
He whispers, “Don’t cry. We got this.”
Bethany prays for him to be okay, then she prays they’ll all be okay.
He says, “I love you. Don’t worry, Daddy’s okay.”
Bianca’s tiny feet pitter-patter across concrete, until she climbs onto his chest and curls up over his heart.
He rails against the blackness dragging him down, trying to hold on for just a few more seconds, but wind roars through the building and his body shudders, and he cries, “I’m sorry for...”
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