Everything
The rain threw itself against the roof of John Sullivan's car. Sounding more like sand than water, the rain only added to John's anger. He clenched the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned the icy white, the same color as his rumpled shirt. Turning into his street, he could feel his blood still pounding with anger at the outcome of the trial. "He provoked me. They're all a bunch of bleeding hearts," he muttered to himself.
His house was now visible in the downpour. Blinking, John stared in disbelief at what he saw in the his driveway. Slamming the car door, John fumed as he glared at the unfamiliar car. "Stupid whore," he muttered, kicking the strange car's tire. "Bet she has a man in the house."
Charging to the front stoop, John fumbled with the key. Pushing the door open, he lumbered down the hall, coming to a stop in the kitchen. He looked at the person sitting with his wife at the kitchen table, and found that he had to use the sink for support.
"Willa," he growled, addressing his wife, "Would you explain to me what the hell is going on?"
"Father, sir," said the young man, who sat at the kitchen table opposite Willa.
"I wasn't talking to you, boy," snapped John. "I was talking to your mother."
"Let me explain," interjected his son boldly.
"It's been two years since you left," interrupted John, fighting to keep the rage out of his voice. He drew closer to his son. "What's there for you to explain? Maybe why you came back?"
Standing up, John's son looked him in the eye and declared, "You're wrong."
"Wrong about what?" challenged John. He could feel all of the anger at his son he had kept bottled up, boil within him for the second time that day. There had been something about the whole trial that had reawakened his loathing for the boy and his embarrassment as to how he turned out. Now, here he was, and John wanted to teach his son what it truly meant to be a man.
"Everything. Everything that you've ever told me is wrong."
"Shut up!" shouted John, as his anger surged within him. Pushing his son, John watched him fall to the floor, knocking the chair to the ground. Willa gasped. John sneered, "Come on, boy. Are you going to let me push you around like a little girl? Come on, be a man. Stand up!"
The son struggled to get back to his feet. Standing up, he glared coldly at his father. From years of experience, he knew that John was waiting for him to do or say something, so John could retaliate against him.
Sick of waiting for his son to do something, John raised his hand and slapped his son in the face, ignoring Willa's scream. "Weakling," spat John. "You have no right to be here. Get out!"
"I still have a right to be here, sir," said his son, glaring at his father, touching the red hand print on his face. "My mother invited me here. I may not have seen you in two years, but I've seen my mother. You were out, so she thought it would be a good time for me to come here today."
John stepped back, feeling as if he had been the one slapped in the face. He turned to Willa, gaping, wondering how she could have betrayed him like this. The wave of shock turned slowly into anger. Grabbing hold of his wife from across the table, John shouted, "How dare you do this to me! You're such a bitch! I can't believe you let him come back here!" John raised his hand to slap his wife, as he had done to his son. Bracing herself for the blow, Willa did not struggle against her husband.
"Stop."
John felt a cold, hard pressure against his throat. Turning to his son, John let go of Willa, who slumped to the floor. Glaring at his son, John snarled, "Drop the knife, and get the hell out of my house."
The son looked at his mother, and then at his father, still holding the switchblade knife in his hand. "No."
"Put that damned thing away, and get out of my house!" shouted John.
"NO!"
"Brian, dear," pleaded Willa weakly, "Listen to your father."
Angrily, Brian closed the switchblade. He stared briefly at his parents, grabbed his jacket and stumbled out the door.
"You shouldn't have done that," said Willa, getting up.
"Done what?"
"Slap him."
John stared at his wife blankly. "He deserved it." He stormed out of the kitchen.
"Where are you going?" asked Willa as she followed John into the hall.
Not answering her, John slammed the front door in her face and staggered through the rain and wind to his car. Swearing, John turned the key and heard the engine sputter and die. Placing his head on the steering wheel, John forced back tears of rage and frustration.
I can't see two slaps in the face provoking someone to commit murder, echoed in his head.
He was wrong. John could not understand what had caused him to vote "not guilty" in the end, but suddenly he knew that he was wrong. The other jurors could never know what it was like to have a son that hated them. John had tried, but his son had always been a disappointment to him, and John could never understand why. The boy did murder his father, John realized. After all, he thought grimly, Look what one slap in the face made my son do. He had that switch knife ready to kill me. He probably has been planning it out since he was younger than that boy was. The boy is right. I'm wrong about everything.