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Sorry I Asked

Occupational Hazards

By TJ SagePublished 3 years ago 10 min read
10
Photo by Negative Space on Pexels

“So when was the last time you saw him?” I looked up from my notes briefly to glance at Lisa.

“Uh…when I was 7, I was playing outside and heard yelling in the house. He and my mom were arguing and he stormed out." She stared at her untouched coffee on the table in front of her, tracing the coffee shop’s logo on the side of the white mug. "My mom never told me what the argument was about, or anything else about him for that matter.”

I wrote furiously in my small black notebook, transcribing every word she said. “And how long ago was that?”

“Twenty two years ago. 1980.”

“Were the two of you close when you were a child? You and your father?”

She smiled without humor, almost a grimace, eyes still glued to her now-cold coffee. “We were the storybook, white-picket-fence-type family.” Her voice dropped an octave, her tone becoming bitter. “He would pick me up from school, we would get ice cream, he’d play dollhouse with me, pour my cereal…alllll the good stuff.”

“You don’t seem fond of reminiscing…is it troubling to think about?”

Her gaze rose and she exhaled sharply, as though trying to physically expel whatever imagery she could see behind her sad eyes. “I just hate how little I know about him. It’s not fair that he was there one day and gone the next and I’ve been left completely in the dark.”

“Is your relationship with your mother strained because of that?”

“I’m here to talk about my father.”

“Ok.” My hand began cramping. “Do you miss him?”

She clicked her tongue as she analyzed her answer. “I miss the idea I have of him in my head. I keep trying to remember anything bad about him, but all I really remember is the picket fence. I’m sure there’s more to the story, but like I said, my mother won’t tell me.”

I turned the page in my notebook and forced my hand to continue despite the cramping. “How long have you been looking for-?”

The sharp jingle of her ringtone sounded throughout the whole coffee shop.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I should take this,” she leapt from her chair and flipped her phone open.

“No problem,” I assured her with a smile. I dug into my pocket for my own phone and listened again to the voicemail from my editor telling me to take this boring story, and again I failed to find any good excuse not to. I flipped through the pages of my notebook looking for a good angle for the article, how I could possibly draw readers in. I found none. Just a cookie-cutter woman looking for a father who abandoned her when she was a child, nothing we’ve never heard before.

Lisa came rushing back after a few minutes and frantically slung her bag over her shoulder.

“Carmen, you won’t believe this,” she huffed. “My PI found an address where he might be living. It’s only ten minutes away, I have to go!”

I shot up as she began rushing to the door. “Wait!” She skidded to a stop and turned half way around. “Would it be any trouble if I tagged along?” I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to make this story more interesting.

She pondered for half a second. “No, actually it might be good if I didn’t go alone.” Holding her keys out to me, “You mind driving?”

We sat in the car outside the lime green house for fifteen minutes before Lisa built up the courage to approach. “It’s an awful color, isn’t it?” she said.

We walked slowly to the door, and she took a deep breath as her shaking hand rang the doorbell. A rustle came from inside, some heavy footsteps, and the door swung open. A middle-aged man stood in the doorway, about 6’, balding, gray mustache, so thin he almost seemed frail, with a scowl carved into his face. He looked confused until he saw the little black notebook in my hands and rolled his eyes.

“I don’t want any magazine subscriptions and I’m a satanist, so get lost,” he grumbled and slammed the door.

“Wait!” Lisa yelled, and rang again.

The door opened abruptly. “I said go away! I don’t want anyth-”

“Are you Roger Blakley?” I interjected. He turned to me and his scowl deepened, giving me chills.

“Depends who’s askin’?”

“I’m your daughter,” Lisa blurted.

Roger stood still and silent for a solid 30 seconds as he sized her up. “Lisa…?”

She gave a shaky nod in response.

“Who’re you?” He jerked his chin toward me.

“I’m Carmen. I’m a-a…a friend,” I stammered.

He nodded slowly. “All right…come in.”

Lisa didn’t hesitate and followed the man inside, leaving me on the porch momentarily before I warily decided to follow them in. The house reeked of sweat, urine, and rotting garbage.

Roger closed the door after me and led us down a hallway. Almost instantly, my subconscious told me I should’ve waited outside as I fought the urge to turn right around.

We passed a small living room and I was reminded of a log cabin by the dark walls, stone fireplace, and wooden furniture. A taxidermy squirrel, among a plethora of other small dead animals sat on the mantle collecting dust along with the rest of the house. I was amazed anyone could live in such filth; sludge and dust bunnies covered every corner that wasn’t filled with piles of trash. Fast food bags and wrappers littered every available surface, a stack of newspapers and magazines sat by a splintering wooden rocking chair with a stained cushion. My nerves triggered the sudden urge to pee, but I could only imagine a ring-stained toilet surrounded by mold and dirty underwear and I forced my bladder to quiet.

I followed Lisa and Roger to the kitchen and sat in one of the mismatched chairs at the lopsided table, wedged between an ancient china cabinet and a sickly green-colored fridge from the 70s. The only light came from one lonely window above the mountainous pile of dishes in the sink, growing its own little ecosystem.

“So…how’s your mother?” Roger growled in Lisa’s general direction, leaning against the counter opposite the table.

“She’s good,” she replied, looking as nauseated as I felt by the surroundings.

“That’s unfortunate.” He grabbed a small bottle in a brown paper bag of the counter behind him and took a swig. “What’d she tell you about me?”

“She won’t tell me anything about you, I’ve had to find you on my own.”

“I bet you’re glad you did.” Lisa looked anything but glad in that moment as Roger lit a cigarette without taking his eyes off her.

He continually leered, eyes darting between us every few seconds.

“So, uh…why did you leave?” Lisa breathed, clutching her bag to her body like a life preserver.

“That bitch didn’t like my drinkin’,” Roger muttered. “Also didn’t like my foolin’ around with pretty young girls.” His eyes slithered down my body, effectively paralyzing me.

Lisa, too, appeared immobile. We sat in deafening silence, my nerves burning with electricity and my discomfort growing exponentially with every second.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and sprang from my seat. “Well, this has been great, but I really need to get home.”

“Yeah, I probably should too,” Lisa said as she rose almost as quickly.

“Wait one minute,” Roger interjected, visibly relaxed, “you two think you can come into my house, interrupt my day, and then just leave when you want?”

Ice shot through my veins and I froze for a second time. He had gone from unnerving to terrifying in seconds, and my instincts screamed at me to flee.

I thought maybe I could reason with him, “Sir, we jus-”

“You just what?” He snapped. He stomped over to me and lowered his face down to mine. I could smell the alcohol on his breath and resisted the urge to gag. “You walked into my house of your own free will.” He backed up down the hallway we had just come through and opened a door a few feet back. Looking at each of us, he jerked his head to the ominous open door. “Down you go.”

Neither of us moved.

“I said,” he sniped, “DOWN YOU GO!”

He charged at me first. The china cabinet and kitchen table restricted my available space to dodge him. He snaked his hand out and grabbed my hair, yanking me toward him. I began to scream but he punched me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me as I doubled over, which made it easier to drag me to the open basement door. As I struggled to get my feet under my body to stop his momentum, I heard Lisa screaming and pounding on the front door. Why couldn’t she open it?

Roger moved his hands to my waist and started pulling me down and I realized we were at the top of the stairs to the basement. I twisted around and latched onto the doorframe, holding on with every ounce of strength I had. My right hand, fatigued from writing my interview notes, began to give way. He heaved, and I watched in terror as my fingers slowly slid closer to the edge.

BANG!

The sudden lack of resistance caused me to fly up and onto the hall floor, ears ringing. I felt a vibration in the wooden stairs under my legs as Roger tumbled down them.

I looked up to see Lisa pointing a handgun into the basement and staring wide-eyed into the darkness.

“Is he dead?” she whispered after several still moments. “Did I kill him?”

“I don’t know…” I swallowed and pushed through the oncoming shock. I pushed myself up and closed the basement door, surprised to see a deadbolt before thinking it made perfect sense. I locked the door and turned to Lisa, who was still in the same position. “Let’s go.” Her still-wide eyes found mine before she gingerly returned the gun to her bag. I didn’t even care she had it this whole time.

I hastily found my things and we began looking for a way out. The front door was locked from the outside, so we ended up breaking a window with one of the kitchen chairs and climbing through it, careful to avoid the sharp edges. The desolate street explained why no one heard the screaming.

I ran to the car and threw open the driver’s side door before noticing Lisa was still in the middle of the sidewalk, staring into space.

“Come on, we have to go to the police!” I yelled, but she didn’t move. “Lisa, let’s go!”

She shook her head slowly. “No…no I could go to prison for what I just did.”

I closed the door and rushed up to her. “It was self defense. And I’m your witness, you’ll be fine. But we need to report what happened to the police, ok? Come on…”

She wrenched her bag open and started digging through it, eventually pulling out a checkbook and pen. She quickly wrote a check, tore it out of the book, ripped her keys out of my hand and thrust the check into it.

“Here’s a check for $20,000 for you to keep quiet about this whole thing. Do not breathe a word about it to anyone.”

“What-” She snatched the little black book that contained all my interview notes and sprinted to her car.

“Wait! We can’t just…come back! We can figure this out!” I continued to yell as she slammed the driver’s side door and sped off and around the corner.

I stared at the check in my hand, completely dumbfounded about what to do next or how to get home. I thought about earlier that day when I’d asked to tag along to this horrible place, and all I could think to myself was, Sorry I asked.

fiction
10

About the Creator

TJ Sage

Not-your-average wannabe writer and author who's a sucker for a good story.

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