Dialogue
It was early Monday morning when Rebel pulled himself onto the bank, and from the icy waters of the Simgahela river. An estimated three and a half miles from the 9th street bridge he so audaciously plummeted from. He was calm, amazingly. His eyes were glazed over, he felt a churning nausea as he looked down at his blood-soaked shirt. Rubbing his hands across his torso he didn't feel any bullet holes. He was alive, and that's always a plus.
"Ow" he shouted. Wait... he did find one bullet still lodged in his left shoulder.
After a thorough examination, he came to the conclusion that he only had just a few minor flesh wounds and the icy water had managed to thicken his blood enough to clot the bullet hole in his shoulder. Right now, Rebel's only thought was to get home. Striding along the dimly-lit street he knew then he would never forget that night...
A double-decker trundled over the hill, its headlamps piercing the fog. Stopping beside the rusty shelter, the doors hissed open and Rebel got on. As the bus wheezed its way through, the gears his mind drifted to the events of the few previous hours. It was a torturous twenty-two minutes to his stop. Rebel scurried off the bus and stood alone as he watched the bus leave.
He took his time walking through the morning mist that was ascending, trying to make some sense of it all. He'd known Van Dawson for years and wondered why he'd suddenly turn on him like that. Rebel was certain of one thing - he wasn't adding Dawson to his Christmas card list. The chiming of the nine o'clock steeple bells interrupted his thoughts.
"Nine o'clock," Rebel whispered to himself.
Nine o'clock meant that his wife, Torie, would be at her weekly charitable Women's Auxiliary function, honoring outstanding philanthropic women in the community, and his seven-year- ld daughter Sophie was at school.
"This is good," Rebel uttered to himself softly.
He could go home tend to his wounds in private and not have to explain to Torie about the bullet wounds. Passing the deserted park, his thoughts turned back to Sophie. She was a daddy's girl for sure. His pride and joy. His eyes welled up when he thought about his share of the money that would have been enough to pay for her operation. The operation that would have repaired her diseased heart.
At home, Rebel found a full bottle of Jack Daniels and a filet knife. He quickly downed half the bottle before he got enough courage to dig the bullet from his shoulder. Rebel picked and prodded at it until he produced the bullet with which he had been shot, and dropped it on the floor with a hollow ping.... after bandaging his shoulder and downing the rest of the whiskey to kill the pain, he passed out in the chair.
At that very moment a light dawned in his mind. He sat up. The water spilled over the edge of the tub.
"Yes! Revenge!" He punched the air. He knew what he had to do and how he would do it.
For the next several days Rebel would prepare his complex strategical operation, or motive to exact punishment for a wrong on behalf of himself and his family, (especially his daughter Sophie) in a resentful and vindictive spirit.
Chapter 2
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It was early Monday morning when Rebel pulled himself onto the bank, and from the icy waters of the Simgahela river. An estimated three and a half miles from the 9th street bridge he so audaciously plummeted from. He was calm, amazingly. His eyes were glazed over, he felt a churning nausea as he looked down at his blood-soaked shirt. Rubbing his hands across his torso he didn't feel any bullet holes. He was alive, and that's always a plus.
"Ow" he shouted. Wait... he did find one bullet still lodged in his left shoulder.
After a thorough examination, he came to the conclusion that he only had just a few minor flesh wounds and the icy water had managed to thicken his blood enough to clot the bullet hole in his shoulder. Right now, Rebel's only thought was to get home. Striding along the dimly-lit street he knew then he would never forget that night...
A double-decker trundled over the hill, its headlamps piercing the fog. Stopping beside the rusty shelter, the doors hissed open and Rebel got on. As the bus wheezed its way through, the gears his mind drifted to the events of the few previous hours. It was a torturous twenty-two minutes to his stop. Rebel scurried off the bus and stood alone as he watched the bus leave.
He took his time walking through the morning mist that was ascending, trying to make some sense of it all. He'd known Van Dawson for years and wondered why he'd suddenly turn on him like that. Rebel was certain of one thing - he wasn't adding Dawson to his Christmas card list. The chiming of the nine o'clock steeple bells interrupted his thoughts.
"Nine o'clock," Rebel whispered to himself.
Nine o'clock meant that his wife, Torie, would be at her weekly charitable Women's Auxiliary function, honoring outstanding philanthropic women in the community, and his seven-year- ld daughter Sophie was at school.
"This is good," Rebel uttered to himself softly.
He could go home tend to his wounds in private and not have to explain to Torie about the bullet wounds. Passing the deserted park, his thoughts turned back to Sophie. She was a daddy's girl for sure. His pride and joy. His eyes welled up when he thought about his share of the money that would have been enough to pay for her operation. The operation that would have repaired her diseased heart.
At home, Rebel found a full bottle of Jack Daniels and a filet knife. He quickly downed half the bottle before he got enough courage to dig the bullet from his shoulder. Rebel picked and prodded at it until he produced the bullet with which he had been shot, and dropped it on the floor with a hollow ping.... after bandaging his shoulder and downing the rest of the whiskey to kill the pain, he passed out in the chair.
Rebel awakened from his inebriated slumber to the delightful smell of Grilled Salmon with Lime Butter Sauce and sautéed zucchini. Sophie was beating the hell out of the PS3, and Torie was sunk into her latest novel. During dinner Rebel ate some of the food but spent most the time shoving the greater part around the plate. Torie put her book down sighing loudly,
"Okay, what's wrong?" she asked. "That salmon's getting dizzy."
"Okay, what's wrong?" she asked. "That salmon's getting dizzy."
"It's only work stuff," he lied.
The book went back up. "Oh I see," she said sharply.
The silence suited him. He didn't want to worry her with the details of a psychopathic nutter named Van Dawson, who had just tried to kill him. or the little tiny fact that he was back cracking safes again. Something he'd promised her seven years ago that he wouldn't do anymore, but that was different... that was before Sophie got sick, and the money he should have gotten from Van Dawson would have paid for her operation.
"No, I'd better keep this little confidential matter to myself," he thought. It might just be enough to flip her over the edge.
He sought solace in the steamy sanctuary of a bath with the radio. With a twist of the dial he found some Beethoven on Classic FM, it was suitably soothing.
The book went back up. "Oh I see," she said sharply.
The silence suited him. He didn't want to worry her with the details of a psychopathic nutter named Van Dawson, who had just tried to kill him. or the little tiny fact that he was back cracking safes again. Something he'd promised her seven years ago that he wouldn't do anymore, but that was different... that was before Sophie got sick, and the money he should have gotten from Van Dawson would have paid for her operation.
"No, I'd better keep this little confidential matter to myself," he thought. It might just be enough to flip her over the edge.
He sought solace in the steamy sanctuary of a bath with the radio. With a twist of the dial he found some Beethoven on Classic FM, it was suitably soothing.
At that very moment a light dawned in his mind. He sat up. The water spilled over the edge of the tub.
"Yes! Revenge!" He punched the air. He knew what he had to do and how he would do it.
For the next several days Rebel would prepare his complex strategical operation, or motive to exact punishment for a wrong on behalf of himself and his family, (especially his daughter Sophie) in a resentful and vindictive spirit.
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