Written for the Triond writers challange, this is a dark take on a classic spun around current events.
Mrs. Montgomery was sobbing harder. Her husband’s calm was just a façade bubbling with suppressed rage and pain. Underneath he was falling apart. Looking through the plate glass window at the grinning frail woman who used to be his daughter, he could feel his own sanity slipping away. He wondered when he would find his own Ox to escape this nightmare.
Later that night the girl’s parents ate in silence. A part of Mrs. Montgomery’s brain still screamed that they should be celebrating. Their daughter was alive! She might even remember them on day. However, deep inside she knew her daughter was gone forever. Samantha was just as dead as if Henry Watson had fed her corpse to a landfill. All that was left was Dorothy Gale and the three things that were biologically her grandchildren. Looking at them al she could see was the face of the man who had taken her daughter. Maybe the children were innocent, but to her that meant little if anything.
The doctors had finally let them see “Dorothy” and the children. It had hurt her soul to see her Samantha staring blankly at her with no recognition in her eyes. The children were little more than idiots. The oldest was five, the youngest three. None of them talked, they just stared blankly at a world they didn’t belong in.
Bill seemed to be taking it better but she was worried about him. He hadn’t cried, hadn’t screamed, in face he had barely talked after leaving the hospital. He had loved his angel so much. Many men would be disappointed if their only child were a girl, but no bill. He had such hopes. He wanted his baby to have a storybook wedding with the man of her dreams. He wanted her to have happily ever after and to give him healthy strong grandchildren. That would never happen now. She knew that no matter how stoic his exterior, inside he was just as broken as their Samantha.
She was damaged. That was what the doctor said. Better to say, they were all damaged. No fairy tale for their daughter. No Christmas with the grand kids for the Montgomery family. No loving family for the children of her daughter’s rape. Henry Watson had damaged so many people beyond repair. Maybe destroyed was a better word. Samantha was dead to them and they were little more than walking corpses.
Margaret was hardly surprised when she heard the gunshot from her husband’s den. She stood up and with a cold determination walked down the hallway to the open door. She could see his legs on the floor and knew that the rest of his body was lying behind his big oak desk.
“Oh Bill” she sobbed. She walked over to the desk but couldn’t bear to look behind it. She picked up the small hand written note. There was not explanation, none was needed. The two words he had scribbled were more than enough for Margaret. A single tear fell upon the paper. One tear for her, for her daughter, for her husband, and even for those poor children that she could never love. The tear landed right in the center of her husband’s note. A drop that stained the truth that bill had written on the paper.
“Damaged Goods”
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