Tommy's Exit

-Count: 1284 Words-

         “Dad, wake up.”
         Mort waved a hand in front of his father’s face. He was slumped back in his favorite chair. The lounger had seen better days, but it was custom molded to his ass after all these years.
         “I’ve got something important to tell you.”
         The bottle of whiskey on his father’s lap tipped and fell over onto the faded, threadbare carpet with a thud as he stirred. The noise made him jump slightly, but his eyes stayed tightly shut.
         “Are you going to sleep there all night? Mom didn’t buy that king size bed for nuthin.” Mort pushed on his arm and nudged him in the ribs. That finally got him going. He jammed his fingers into his eyes, trying to rub the sleep out of them.
         “Jesus could’ve come back, you’d still be sleeping,” Mort said, now with his arms across his chest.
         “Hmmpph. What?” A loud cough, then, “Whatcha want Mort?”
         His voice sounded like gravel being tumbled in a cement truck. Almost as if on auto-pilot his father pulled a filter-less cigarette from a slim, worn-nickel case. With a practiced ease he put it to his lips and produced a Zippo all in one smooth motion.
         When he had a nice glowing tip, and smoke swirling around his head like a shroud, he looked at his son in earnest.
         “What the fuck do you want?” His father always placed a heavy emphasis on the “fuck.” When he talked the cigarette bobbed up and down between his lips. It made him sound like a bad ventriloquist when he talked while he smoked.
Mort felt like the tiniest piece of plankton at the bottom of the deepest ocean; small and meaningless.
         “Dad, listen, I got some news,” Mort said as he nervously picked at a seam on his jeans. “The news is, is that I want Tommy back.”
         His father began to cough, either out of frustration, anger or just plain old black lung. “Fuck you ain’t. I got Tommy hanging just where I want him. ‘Sides, I think he likes it up there near the fan.”
         “I miss him Dad.” Mort was getting desperate now. He knew if he didn’t get his father’s full attention soon he would be blown off completely. With that in mind, and not much else, he flicked out an open hand, almost like a slap. The cigarette went flying through the air and landed in a potted plant hanging from the ceiling.
         Mort was instantly terrified. His father looked dumbfounded for an instant, then gathered himself and jumped from his chair as if he’d been shocked.
         “Boy, you ain’t never getting’ Tommy back now. On top of that, I’m gonna pound you until you’re tenderized buffalo meat.”
         Mort didn’t know what else to do, so he put his fists up in a lame attempt at defense. He hoped his bulk would be an advantage, at least to hold his dad off long enough for his mother to call for dinner or something.
         His father was an ex-Navy man and had the reputation for being a dirty fighter. Mort found this to be true immediately. A swift, moccasin covered foot lashed out and connected with Morts’ testicles. He groaned and felt the wind in his lungs leave him in a quick burst.
         “Gotcha!” Mort’s dad chuckled at his successful strike.
         Mort straightened himself and raised his fists again, though he thought it was probably a useless gesture. His father was fast too. So fast that he didn’t have time to duck as a VHS tape connected with his skull.
         “Christ, that hurt.” Mort rubbed his head and squinted through one eye to locate his father. He was circling around the room now, like a jungle cat, waiting to pounce.
         Unbelievably the next object to fly his way was an old, child’s rocking chair. It bounced off Mort’s head as well and sent him staggering. It was small, but hell was it solid, he thought.
         “This is ridiculous dad. Settle down.”
         He didn’t think his dad agreed. He rooted around near the fireplace until he produced a black, iron fire poker. Impossibly, he was across the room in an instant and raising the weapon to strike. Mort cowered in fear, covering his head and ducking. From this contorted position he noticed that Tommy was no longer hanging from his spot by the fan.
         “Dad! Tommy’s gone!” Mort cried, trembling, hoping to avoid a much more painful strike than the chair or the VHS tape.
         His father stopped in mid-swing and dropped the poker. He swung around and around, hysterically looking for the little puppet that had detached itself from its high perch.
         “Where the fuck…” his father’s voice trailed off as he concentrated on finding Tommy. Mort just stood there, glad for the brief respite.
         Something brushed Mort’s leg. He felt a tugging on his pant leg, as if an invisible force was trying to pull them off. Looking down he saw a tiny hand waving from underneath the couch.
         Mort almost screamed ‘Tommy!’ but managed to stop himself. He held his hand over his mouth, worried that he had made a tell-tale sound of excitement that would bring his father’s attention. Satisfied his discovery was still unnoticed; he bent down, sucking in his stomach, to see what Tommy wanted.
         The tiny hand disappeared for an instant. When it slithered out into the light again it was holding a small camping hatchet. Mort glanced nervously from side-to-side, believing his thoughts alone could betray his plan. After he bent down quickly and retrieved the weapon, he saw Tommy unfurl his little waxen hand. Written on his palm in black ink were the words:
         ‘DO IT!’
         Mort clasped the axe in both hands, holding it close to his chest. Sweat curled the tips of his hair and slicked his palms. His father was on his knees, looking in the drawers of an old, faded dresser in a spare room. His incessant mumbling of curse words masked the sound of Mort padding across the room behind him, gleaming axe in hand.
         He smiled as he drove the axe down into his father’s head. The blade met skull with a sickening thud, splitting the entire thing open and hiding all but the rubberized handle. His father’s body collapsed and his face collided with the corner of the bed-side table on the way down.
         Mort firmly planted his foot on his father’s face and pulled at the axe with all his strength. Sweat droplets fought past his eye lashes and dripped into his eyes, stinging them and producing tears. He was aware of that happening strangely, yet he knew they weren’t tears of sadness or loss…they were tears of joy.
         Finally he would be alone with Tommy. No one could bother them now. Tommy would sleep in his bed and they would have all the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches they could eat and even mother...
         Just as he thought of his mother she went by the open door holding a basket of clean clothes. She was humming an old Irish folk song as she went. Mort stopped tugging on the axe and stood totally still.
         Thankfully she didn’t notice the body, or the growing pool of dark blood seeping into the orange carpet. But she would, he thought. She would come in to clean one day, and she would notice. Then she would get mad and take Tommy away.
         “Not this time. Not anymore,” Mort said, as he gave one final full-body tug on the handle, jerking it free. He didn’t even bother wiping it off as he turned and walked through the doorway, following his mother’s humming and soft footsteps.