by Mark Tullius
glass of orange juice. “They won’t. And I talked to the boys’ principal too. It won’t even count as a sick day.”
“Good.” Sarah wiped her hands on her apron. “Boys! Come on, we’re going to be late!”
Like they were waiting outside the door, the fifteen-year-old twins walked in and took their places, Justin to his father’s left, Jeremy to the right. Black pants, black shirts, no words.
Michael started to think the family might not be ready for this, but as if she was reading his mind, Sarah pointed at his shirt. “You’re not really wearing that, are you?”
Michael realized he was the only one in white, not exactly an appropriate color for the occasion. “I’ll, uh, change after we eat.”
Sarah pulled off her apron, took a seat. She was wearing the black dress she wore for Jenny’s eighth grade graduation. The dress Michael teased her about because she was just like the other parents acting like it was some big deal. Sarah asked the boys if they liked their eggs. They gave little nods. Sarah didn’t respond, didn’t touch her food, she just sat there, staring at her empty juice glass. Michael told himself it’d get easier.
After breakfast, the two-hour ride to San Angeles was quiet. Only Sarah spoke, and only once. She said, “This is good, this is going to be good.”
When they got to New Parker Center, Michael kept the doors locked.
“There’s something I have to say.”
Sarah pulled on the handle. “We’ve already discussed this. Open it.”
“Yeah, Dad.” Jeremy sat up and glared in the rear view, his eyes the size of golf balls. “You promised.”
Michael didn’t know if that was true. He couldn’t remember promising, but he couldn’t remember not promising either. It had been like that lately, Michael’s recent memory had become a thick fog and as always, he was too exhausted to try to cut through it. Instead, he just wondered what kind of father would promise his children something like this and unlocked everyone’s door.
The cop at the desk signed them in, told them to be sure to keep track of the time. Five minutes each, not a second more.
Sarah grabbed the pen, signed her name. They had agreed she could go first. A uniformed officer led Sarah away.
The desk cop pointed Michael and the boys across the hall. “Someone will come for you.”
The waiting room was cold and small, the floor and walls a dull white. The boys were on the little couch. Jeremy sat with his fists pushed together, his steel-toe boot tap, tap, tapping. Michael wondered if Sarah had bought them just for today. Justin sat hunched over too, but different, like there should be a bucket between his feet.
Michael felt he should ask if they were okay, give the boys a chance to back out. But Sarah said they had the right. What if it’d been his sister? Michael didn’t have a sister, but he understood what she meant. This would give them a little control, help them move past this.
Michael locked eyes on the clock. Four minutes past nine.
A cop called Michael’s name from the doorway. He got up without saying a word to the boys. The elevator took him down to an unmarked floor and a long hallway, the fluorescent lights and ceramic tiles part of the original building.
They turned right at the next hallway. Sarah was down at the end. An officer led her by the elbow, her face speckled red, the same color dripping from her clenched fists. Sarah didn’t even glance at Michael as they passed, ragged breaths seeping through her plastered smile beneath a vacant gaze.
Michael’s officer nudged him toward the door. “Mr. Adams, you’ve been advised of your rights. Do you have any questions?”
He did have questions. What would he see on the other side? Did he really want to know what his wife was capable of? And what about the boys?
The officer unlocked the door. Red globs covered the floor, fragments of Sarah’s footprints. Michael started to ask if it could be cleaned then realized how ridiculous that would be.
“Mr. Adams, clock’s ticking.”
Michael stepped inside. The dimly lit room smelled of blood and sweat. That’s what he remembered about Jenny’s birth. The complications. All that blood.
It was three days before the doctor took Jenny out of the NICU bed and said they could hold her. Michael was scared because Jenny was so small, but once she was in his arms, he swore he’d never let go. He’d protect her from everything.
But Michael failed.
The monster who raped and murdered his baby girl sat naked, his hands cuffed to the top of the table. Sarah had kept her word, but just barely. Olsen’s eyes were swollen, but he could still open them.
For a second, Michael thought this was the wrong guy. Olsen looked nothing like the family man with five adoring kids. Each of them had written Michael and Sarah at least once a week begging them not to come today. They asked for mercy. They said none of this would bring Jenny back. Sarah burned every letter.
The cell looked like the interrogation room from an old cop show. Three bare metal walls, a fourth with the one-way mirror Sarah said she’d be behind. The only light flickered from the 60-watt bulb hanging over the table, where the naked monster looked like something out of a horror movie. Olsen’s face oozed blood. His nose flattened and mushed to the left. The whites of his eyes were clouded red. His left ear hung on by a few ropes of skin.
Michael sat across from Olsen and stared at his hands. The top of the right one was a dark purple mass, the cuff smashed into the skin, looking like someone had slammed an anvil on it. Even if Olsen lived, it’d have to be amputated.
But Olsen wasn’t going to live. If he made it past today, they’d still fry him tomorrow. That’s what Michael kept telling himself.
An electric timer was mounted on the wall next to the mirror, thirty seconds already gone.
Olsen’s attack on Jenny lasted a minute and fifty-three seconds. Some coward on the third floor caught the whole thing on video.
Below the timer was an iron stand that held a sledgehammer, a fireplace poker, and an aluminum baseball bat, smudged red on the end.
Olsen made a noise. It came out all mumbled through his broken jaw. Two teeth poked through his bottom lip. He was trying to speak, but Michael had heard enough of this prick’s voice. During the trial, Olsen made a full confession and cried the entire time. He said Jenny had smiled at him. He said he couldn’t help himself. He was sick.
Olsen finally got out his words, clearer this time. “Finish it,” he said. “Please.”
Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath, tried to remember the last time he’d held Jenny. She was only thirteen.
“Kill me,” Olsen begged.
Michael banged the table and drove it into Olsen’s chest, pinned him to the wall. Michael jumped to his feet. “You don’t get to decide.”
The timer said Michael had three minutes.
He walked over, told himself not to pick up the poker, but there he was, pulling it out of the stand, careful not to cut himself on the razor-sharp hook and pointed tip.
Olsen moaned and Michael watched the seconds tick away. If Michael hit him once, that would be it. There’d be no stopping.
At two-forty-two, Olsen said, “She cried for you.” Olsen cocked his head, raised the pitch in his voice, mimicking some ditzy teenage girl. “My daddy, my daddy…”
Michael spun around. Olsen leaned into it. But Michael let go of the handle and the poker flew past Olsen’s face, clanked off the wall.
The timer hit Jenny’s minute fifty-three. The head of the sledgehammer was as wide as Michael’s fist. One hit is all it would take. Finished. The boys wouldn’t have to step foot in this room, lower themselves to this piece of shit. They wouldn’t have to hear Olsen’s goddamn voice.
Michael reached out, picked up the sledgehammer and faced the mirror. The man staring back looked nothing like the man Michael had awakened as.
The mirror thumped. It thumped again, Sarah pounding it over and over until Michael let the sledgehammer fall to the ground.
The timer w
as down to one-fifteen, the moment Jenny had stopped fighting, and Olsen slammed her head into the concrete.
Each passing second was one less for Olsen, a little closer to the death he deserved.
Michael concentrated on the mirror. He saw the timer in the reflection. The buzzer rang. His boys would get their five minutes alone.
Click here to watch the short film based on the story.
Fourteen Angry Marchers
October 11, 2037
Kenneth Murphy refused to fidget. He sat alone in the front pew, his sparkling white suit jacket too big, his fingers peeking out pale and stubby. The shoulder pads did little to add confidence, did nothing to stop him from picturing all the families at home watching and wondering how a scrawny, pimply-faced eighteen-year-old could take over for his glorious father, who was commanding the altar like God’s personal general. Sunlight poured through the stained glass windows and streamed over the Reverend’s crimson locks, creating a fiery halo worthy of the archangel Michael. All that was missing were wings and a sword.
It was often said when the Reverend spoke, the world stopped, and when the Reverend asked his flock to join him in prayer, Heaven rumbled from the thunderous sound.
Kenneth and his father were the only ones wearing white, the sacred color of the Chosen, but Kenneth just felt like a fraud. This was the day he was to take his first steps toward becoming the leader of the Church of the American Way, the largest ministry in the world. The Reverend had baptized the current president, countless
