The streets were silent as Harry pulled his car around to the same area he
had parked just the night before. He left the keys in the ignition not
caring too much about his piece of junk car, then, just concentrating on
one thing. Okay, two things. The headache made him feel like the only way
to relieve the pounding was to blow his own head off.
Ignoring the fancy 500 dollar knocker on the large door, he walked right in, to find just who he was looking for sitting right there. Harold on the couch, a beer in front of him, and Rose in the gold armchair another martini in her drunken grasp, a half smoked cigarette between her fingers.
The rage let itself free and he ran at the man in the black slacks who looked in great surprise at the man who had just decided to waltz into his home and was now leaping at him, fire in his eyes.
"What-" Rose got out and dropped her cigarette on the precious carpet by surprise.
"You son of a bitch," Harry grumbled and got in a good punch to the dark haired man. His knuckles stung. But that was a good sign. The pain was satisfaction. Harold groaned and Harry gave him another one right to the nose, exploding blood onto his hand and Harold's face. he stopped then and stood back, as he rubbed his hand without realizing it.
"Call the police, Rose," Harold told his 'girlfriend' quietly and looked back to Harry. Rose took the opportunity to run from the room to a phone, her heels clacking on the floor.
"Now just what is this all about!" Harold demanded and touched his messed up nose, looking at the blood on his fingers. "How DARE you just-"
"No, you DARE you smack your daughter around like that. Did you know she was going to go and kill herself? Did you?" Harry demanded angrily.
"Well no-"
"Did you know she cut her arms too? Cut up those welts you gave her?"
Harold took this opportunity for his own to get angry and he stood up ignoring his nose for a moment.
"You knew she was cutting her arms and you didn't say anything?" He yelled back, turning it all back on Harry.
"Like you didn't see them when you whipped out the belt, or did all those bruises you gave her, cover them up pretty good? Huh?"
"How dare you come into MY home and accuse me of such things-" Harold took the defensive side.
"Oh cut the bullshit; she told me herself!" Harry lashed back.
"Well she's not here to say anything anymore, is she?" he said back as if he were happy that she was gone. Harry's eyes opened wider. Oh he was happy all right. He could have very well killed her himself.
"You sick bastard.." Harry said under his breath and gave him another punch to his nose, exploding more blood onto his face. Harold this time fought back and punched him in the same exact place that J had. New pain stung on Harry's face and his head rang. He almost thought he would pass out from the pain. For being a small man, Harold had a pretty good arm.
-
He didn't hear the sirens. He didn't hear the police burst through the door shouting nonsense with their guns nor did to hear when they read him his rights and and locked him up in the handcuffs. Perhaps it was from the rage that hadn't been totally dumped on Harold or maybe it was the migraine grinding his head everytime he moved his eyes he wanted to vomit. He didn't need anybody to kill him, not Harold, not the fancy cops in their little fancy belts, with their pansy guns.. No, Harry was already dead, and he didn't want to be revived.
Ignoring the fancy 500 dollar knocker on the large door, he walked right in, to find just who he was looking for sitting right there. Harold on the couch, a beer in front of him, and Rose in the gold armchair another martini in her drunken grasp, a half smoked cigarette between her fingers.
The rage let itself free and he ran at the man in the black slacks who looked in great surprise at the man who had just decided to waltz into his home and was now leaping at him, fire in his eyes.
"What-" Rose got out and dropped her cigarette on the precious carpet by surprise.
"You son of a bitch," Harry grumbled and got in a good punch to the dark haired man. His knuckles stung. But that was a good sign. The pain was satisfaction. Harold groaned and Harry gave him another one right to the nose, exploding blood onto his hand and Harold's face. he stopped then and stood back, as he rubbed his hand without realizing it.
"Call the police, Rose," Harold told his 'girlfriend' quietly and looked back to Harry. Rose took the opportunity to run from the room to a phone, her heels clacking on the floor.
"Now just what is this all about!" Harold demanded and touched his messed up nose, looking at the blood on his fingers. "How DARE you just-"
"No, you DARE you smack your daughter around like that. Did you know she was going to go and kill herself? Did you?" Harry demanded angrily.
"Well no-"
"Did you know she cut her arms too? Cut up those welts you gave her?"
Harold took this opportunity for his own to get angry and he stood up ignoring his nose for a moment.
"You knew she was cutting her arms and you didn't say anything?" He yelled back, turning it all back on Harry.
"Like you didn't see them when you whipped out the belt, or did all those bruises you gave her, cover them up pretty good? Huh?"
"How dare you come into MY home and accuse me of such things-" Harold took the defensive side.
"Oh cut the bullshit; she told me herself!" Harry lashed back.
"Well she's not here to say anything anymore, is she?" he said back as if he were happy that she was gone. Harry's eyes opened wider. Oh he was happy all right. He could have very well killed her himself.
"You sick bastard.." Harry said under his breath and gave him another punch to his nose, exploding more blood onto his face. Harold this time fought back and punched him in the same exact place that J had. New pain stung on Harry's face and his head rang. He almost thought he would pass out from the pain. For being a small man, Harold had a pretty good arm.
-
He didn't hear the sirens. He didn't hear the police burst through the door shouting nonsense with their guns nor did to hear when they read him his rights and and locked him up in the handcuffs. Perhaps it was from the rage that hadn't been totally dumped on Harold or maybe it was the migraine grinding his head everytime he moved his eyes he wanted to vomit. He didn't need anybody to kill him, not Harold, not the fancy cops in their little fancy belts, with their pansy guns.. No, Harry was already dead, and he didn't want to be revived.