Father and Son

I had noticed that the jail cell was left open that night. While taking a quick glance, I found there were no guards in sight, no inmates, and not a soul to be seen. Assuming this was a sign of good luck, I ran off without looking back. I knew the prison halls like the back of my hand; I ran for the exit and fled. My son was staying with Margaret, my ex wife, who I haven’t seen since late august of last year. I never had the chance to say goodbye to him; she, I couldn’t care less about but my son was my pride and joy. I never wanted him to be a screw up like his old man. Every year for Christmas, I gave him something to remember me by: a glass marble to signify that you never have to stop moving forward, a small toy soldier to keep him reminded that one should never stop fighting for what is important. But this year, I hadn’t given him a thing. I went to their house, and knocked on the old, worn down door. It was unlocked so I made an entrance and walked to his bedroom. I sat down in the old chair where I used to read bedtime stories to him. I placed my hand on his head, told him that daddy was home. I slipped an old photograph in his pocket of him and I from the carnival a couple years back. It was a proud moment in my life. That year, I won him a giant teddy bear that he slept with every night. It was all he ever wanted. I left the room, and closed the door behind me. I walked to the backyard and lit a cigarette, pulled out my trusty bottle of whiskey, took a swig and laid on the porch waiting for the cops to come, or for god to take me away, or for any sign that my life was over. I closed my eyes and waited.


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