Drake Robbins is a writer from Kansas City, Missouri. Drake’s passion for storytelling traces back to his childhood and has been the driving force in his necessity to create unique stories—each with the goal of providing a source of entertainment and captivation. Drake is a firm advocate for escapism and believes it to be essential in maintaining a healthy psyche.
Drake is currently pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing at Full Sail University.
I sit here in this pale blue armchair, hate festering in my heart. So much so, that I can feel it in my chest. Across the room, my father—or at least the man who married my mother—stands by the door pacing back and forth, cursing God. It was just last night that he murdered her. The memory replays in my mind like clockwork. Every moment down to the last detail. The voices coming from upstairs. The confusion and curiosity on his face. The anger in his eyes upon discovery. The sweating, guilt-ridden, naked bodies interlocked with each other. And then the words. Words full of venom and loathing and hatred. It seemed the rest happened in an instant. He strafed into the master-bathroom complete with a walk-in closet, came back out and raised his arm— within two bright flashes they were dead. When it was done, I could see the man I had always suspected was crawling inside of him. A broken, angry, repository of resentment.
Now we’re here, two towns over in a motel room, just waiting. It’s only a matter of time before they find us, and I know that he knows. What’s going through his mind? Does he plan on killing himself? What about me? I know he’s despised me from the moment we met. It doesn’t help that I’m a spitting image of the man he found her with. He’d probably take pleasure in seeing me dead now. It’s what he’s always wanted: My mother to himself. Guess he blew that chance the same as he blew her brains out. As I sit here contemplating, I notice he’s left it on the bed. The fiend taunts me with its chrome chamber and black handle. Maybe I want to kill him. Maybe I should kill him. After all, the world would be better off for it. But if I’m going to do this, there’s something I need to know. I break the silence for the first time since the incident.
“Why did you stay?” I ask.
“What?” he says, even though I know he heard me.
“You told me you knew. You told me if she ever did it again that you’d kill her. Why not just leave?” I ask.
He walks into the bathroom without another word. I don’t know whether I’ve pissed him off or made him upset. Whatever the case, I stand up and walk over to the bed. I look down at the tool that ended the only life I ever cared about. After a long minute he comes back out.
“She always promised it would stop,” he looks into my eyes for the first time in my sixteen years of being alive. “But people like us never change.”
And for once, I find myself experiencing a feeling that has since evaded me. Here in this motel room, I see a man with blood on his hands. The blood of a woman he loved—a woman he simultaneously resented. A woman that drove him to kill. For once, I see a man I can identify with. I see a man for what he truly is: a flaw in the genetic code of our universe. One that has been replicated since the dawn of humanity. And for the smallest moment, I feel nothing but unequivocal relief as I squeeze the trigger.