The Writings of Mary Lewys

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Pop. The wood stock of the Ruger Mini-14 bumps into his shoulder, if that. He’s surprised by how loud the silencer actually is – not that anyone at any distance would hear. The man at the gun show said the clip would be handy. Waiting between shots wouldn’t be as satisfying. Through the scope, he sees his Dad’s forehead dot with a black hole before crumpling into the grass of the courtyard.

Courtyard, no campus is more like it – his father’s alma mater. Scanning, his finger tenses on the trigger as this time Dad’s dressed in nerdy attire with thick, girl-proof glasses. Pop. Down he goes. If Dad hadn’t insisted he attend, Sara might not have broken up with him.

Honing into the crosshairs, the leather jacket and slicked hair looks funny on Dad. Pop. Not as funny as him crying out in pain before falling out of sight. The bell tower’s working out better than he planned. Pop. He drops yuppie Dad. Pop. Down goes frat Dad. Surprisingly, his tears don’t blur his vision at all. When the sirens reach him, he giggles as he puts a bullet between Professor Dad’s eyes.

He hasn’t missed his father yet.

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Unless otherwise expressly stated, this original material of whatever nature created by Mary Lewys is licensend under a Creative Commons License.