"Are you my father?" the voice asked, warily but with a hint of excitement. "I don't know, am I?" he replied. When he turned around, nothing could have prepared him for the sight his eyes beheld. For, right before his eyes, which were red like the blood running through his tired veins, red like the cape held by that bullfighter he dimly recalled seeing in Tijuana many years ago, red like the traffic light he had run at age 17, setting in motion the chain of events that landed him at this very precise spot in time, stood his mirror image, but one from what could only be called an alternate universe.
| He looked down into her sad eyes which were gazing back plaintively. He did not know how he could do that which had to be done. The weight in his hand seemed to grow ten times heavier as he hefted the ax to his shoulder. At first she seemed almost unconcerned, faintly fighting the metal keeping her pinned. When the ax raised above his head she let out a loud squawking noise and struggled mightily to escape. A brief instant later as the feathers drifted down and the blood dripped he knew it was all over. Henrietta the chicken was dead and would soon be in the oven for dinner. |
A man stood before him looking at him through eyes that were his many years ago. Who the hell are you, kid? He asked gruffly as he spit on the floor. A floor he moped every night before locking the door and headed home. It was a home in name only and he knew it. There was no one waiting for him as he came through the door. Only emptiness. Are you hard of hearing, kid? he said again. Walking up closer to the haggard old man he asked, Do you know a woman by the name of Esther Stevens?