The Bench

Reads: 5040  | Likes: 55  | Shelves: 55  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Abandoned

A man has lost everything he held dear and now must choose how to seek justice and revenge on those that had taken it all from him.

Was originally started by the 3rd picture prompt of February, but grow out of control

Submitted: February 25, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 25, 2018



The Bench

By Ian D. Mooby

999 words.


He sat in the same spot he had so many of times before.  The bench had been replaced and the cement scrubbed clean, but he could picture the way it had looked that day.  His sweet loving Annette had taking little Catherine to the park to play, the same they did almost every day.  He had promised to meet them there after he had finished the chapter he was working, his editor demanded it be to him tomorrow.  He wished he had gone with them, had told the editor where to shove his deadline, but he hadn’t.

The police claim it was a drug bust gone bad, that the dealer who were all dead had shot the victims while firing on the cops.  He had believed that at first, he didn’t think straight then, the sight of them putting his wife and daughter into those black plastic bags and zipping them up was seared into his brain.  He drank trying to blot out the memory, to wash away the image, but it didn’t help.

He can barely remember the funeral that his parents and Annette’s parents arranged.He remembered breaking down and falling to his knees in tears as they stood by the grave site.  He spent weeks in the hospital, refusing to eat, just wanting to join his wife and child.  His parents and in-laws came to see him, trying to give him a reason to go on, but he had none.

By the time Jacob showed up he was strapped to a bed and being feed intravenously.Jacob was an elderly gentleman with white hair and winning smile.  He dressed the part even with the three-piece suit and carried a cane, not that he needed it.  He walked in and pulled a chair over beside the bed and sat down.  He leaned his cane on the nightstand and removed his fedora before leaning in.

“Michael, I could say all the things others say, I understand your pain, I know what you are going through, but that is all hog wash each man’s suffering is unique to him.  What I can say to you is that those that killed your family aren’t dead, they haven’t been punished, they are being treated as heroes.  You can lay here and let them get away with it or you can make sure the truth comes out.  I’ll leave that choice to you.”  He pulled a card from his vest pocket and laid it by the phone before leaving.

Michael laid there after the man left and considered what he had said.  If it was true then he had something he could do, someway he could honor his wife and child.  First, he would have to get better, he would have to get released first.  The doctors were amazed at his turn around and it didn’t take long for him to convince them he was better.

The day he was release was the first time he came back here since the day he lost his family.  Most of the damage had been repaired by then.  All traces of the shoot out were being removed as if it never happened.  He had sat on this same bench and thought about what he had seen that day.

His wife and daughter laying between the bench and hedge, their bodies intertwined.  The dead drug dealers in the center of the park, around the jungle gym and swings.  The cops, the ones dressed as drug dealers, the ones that had been involved were standing at the far end of the park pointing to spots over there.  He was a writer, a man that used his imagination to invent words and scenarios to entertain, but he put his imagination to another use now.  He tried to see how the drug dealers who were between his family and cops would shoot them.

He finally left not sure what to believe.  He was a writer paid to make the improbable seem probable, but the fact the cops covered up a bad shooting that just felt wrong.  At home that night he had called Jacob and arranged to meet the man.  After that call he had sat at his kitchen table staring at a bottle of whiskey, but he refused to take a drink.  He had to figure this out first.

As the sun went down Michael pulled up his hood and continue to sit there.  He had learned the truth, the whole bloody mess truth and now he had to decide what to do about it.  He could drop it and go home to the bottle or he could make those that had really killed his family pay.  Jacob had offered him a chance to do just that, make them pay, but to do that he risked not only his life, but that of his parents and Annette’s.

Jacob had spent a lot of money to uncover the truth and he was never clear why he had, but he had.  Ballistic reports showing that bullets that had killed his family had not come from any of the guns of the gun dealers, but from the guns of the cops.  Videos of those same cops stealing drugs and money from other crimes scenes.  Even a recording of two of the cops discussing how they planned on killing the dealers and taking their money.  Enough evidence to have the cops involved arrested and to start an investigation into the whole force.  But stepping forward with it would make him a target and all around him.

He stared at the hedge and thought about what to do and that bottle of whiskey that was still sitting on the kitchen table calling to him.  He wanted his revenge, but not at the cost of those people near him.  He needed another option something that would make those really responsible pay but protect him.  He finally stood up as the street lights came on and walked towards home he had a call to make.

© Copyright 2018 Ian D. Mooby. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:


More Flash Fiction Short Stories