Selene
Copyright© 2022 by Old Man with a Pen
Chapter 1
“What’s this?”
I was looking at the small package next to my breakfast plate.
“Happy Birthday, babe.” Daddy said.
“Ooo ... that’s right. I forgot,” I said.
“Twelve,” said Daddy. I could hear the pride in his voice.
Mom died when I was born ... she shouldn’t have. Daddy always added that to any and all conversations about where my mother was.
Generally, it was old fuddy-duddies who asked. They always wanted to know why a budding beauty was in the care of a 33 year old man ... suspicious, it was. Daddies have no business raising children alone. Daughter ... sons can look after themselves
“She died, she shouldn’t have,” he said. It was the voice of regret.
I can recall that line all the way back to babyhood.
When I say, she died when I was born ... it’s a lie. Right there on the courthouse steps, I was ripped from her dead body. Emergency surgery with a pocket knife. Mom was shot to death by a terrorist. My sibs died too. After his wounds healed he got the ‘chair.’ Was on the news recently. In Iran he was feted as a martyr ... murdered by the ‘Great Satan.’
One hot July night, when I was 10, our air conditioning broke down. I was miserable. I thought, hot tub on low. I got out of bed and headed for the tub. There was a light on in the office. Daddy. I peeked. Yup ... Daddy. Daddy was watching something on the flat screen. It was a news program ... but daddy was crying. Still, he pushed a button on the remote. A restart.
I was in the doorway ... the flat screen was behind daddy’s desk. The desk is between me and the screen. I watched.
KLRU, Austin’s PBS station is filming a demonstrating crowd in front of the court house. A pregnant woman was ascending the steps when a man in a burnoose opened up with some kind of fully automatic weapon. The pregnant woman was cut nearly in two,
“Mom!” I cried. Then I watched the pocket knife surgery ... I was born. Two small bodies were dropped on the marble steps.
I am supposed to be triplets.
It’s my fifteen minutes.
“Can I open it?”
“May I open it,” Daddy corrected.
“May I open it,” not a question ... a response.
“After the cake.”
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