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Jonny Vangelis’ hands trembled. He felt like an old, creaky house that could be blown over by a strong wind. The gun was cold and his hands never quite felt comfortable around it. His steps were cautious, slow, fearful. He knew he had to do this, knew the alternative was the grimy hell of debtors’ prison.
One Eyed Jack, with his salt-and-pepper beard and the eyepatch he had once confessed was unnecessary (“The customers like the persona!”), had made it seem so easy, so quick, so clean. Just one shot. Jack had accepted him, made him feel like an adult, offered him a cigar (which promptly made him nearly cough his lungs out). And he’d called him by his name, the one Jonny had chosen. For all Jack’s smooth talk, they both knew that he had no choice. He’d been spending all his time away from home, gambling for the quick, sheer thrill of it. And his father had somehow been building up even more debt, drowning his grief in any sort of drink or drug he could get his hands on.
Sometimes, when he stumbled home half conscious or yelling nonsense, Jonny wondered if it was his fault that it was like this. Maybe if he’d just followed what his father wanted him to be. Maybe if he had just locked away his real self in a deep corner of his brain. When thoughts like that got too much, he’d run off to the casino, the bright lights and clink of coins pushing everything else aside. It was always open, always a distraction. He’d told Jack that he had killed people before, but it was a lie. He was still a teenager, on the edge of adulthood but not quite shoved off into it.
But now it’d led up to this, gripping a gun in a dim alley. The drunk on the ground ahead of him stirred. Jonny held his breath and pulled the trigger, finger pressing against the cold metal. The shot was louder than he expected, echoing around him. Dark crimson pooled around the man he’d been asked to kill. There was so much of it and it just kept flowing and flowing. He was not quite dead yet, and turned over with a groan. Their eyes met, both sets blue and shining with tears.
“Dad.” He wanted to say something, anything else. But all the words stopped before they could pass his lips.
“I forgive you, daughter,” he said. His father’s eyes were flickering closed, breathing slowing down. Jonny felt a sudden wave of nausea, at the blood and gore but also at the drunk lying dead in front of him.
Maybe if he hadn’t done this, his father would have accepted him- No. Enough with the maybes.
Jonny almost said he was sorry. But he wasn’t. His feet now feeling solid and steady on the ground, he tucked his gun back into his holster. For later. His story was not yet complete.