Chapter 5: Away Into Nothing

George was a nervous wreck when he pulled onto the small residential street off of the gas-station and liquor-store ridden road he usually took home from work. Part of him had considered not making the turn toward home at all. A few more blocks and that main drag would have brought him to a freeway. Once there he could just go, head anywhere, maybe someplace out west, or someplace down south.

But the nervous man, full of fear at the thought of going to jail, made the turn toward home anyway.

He took his large Dodge Ram pickup truck slowly down the road lined with parked cars. The closer he got to his house, the more his heart rate increased.

You fucked yourself good this time, a voice deep inside his head said. Yeah, you fucked yourself real good. Was it worth it? Was it worth raping that bitch of a daughter of yours? She got you good, got you real good. Because you're fucked now, my man. And it better have been worth it 'cause the cops are waiting for you. They're waiting at your house to arrest your punk ass. You're gonna be in court again and all the war medals in the world ain't gonna impress no judges this time. You raped your daughter, you sick fuck! Your 13-year-old girl! They're gonna put her on the stand and one sight of that cute little angel brat bitch will anger a jury like nothing. And when it's your turn, what're you gonna say? That she's yours? Shit, they're gonna hate you even more! They're gonna wanna make you pay for what you did. And you will pay. You'll pay by going to some rape-me-in-the-ass prison for the rest of your miserable fucking life. So when you're getting gang-raped by some neo-nazi motherfuckers six months from now, you better be able to think it was worth it, you stupid fuck!

"FUCK!" George exclaimed. His hands were gripping his steering wheel and his knuckles were white and his forehead was sweaty. He was scaring himself shitless. His truck was idling. The springtime sun was high and bright in the sky. He heard someone honk their horn.

Anger boiled in his stomach. Fuck, he kept thinking. Why'd I fucking do that? I'm fucked, I'm totally fucked.

Reluctantly the 'Nam vet pushed at the gas peddle. The truck began to move again, move closer to his house. The cops are going to be there, he told himself. They're going to be there, waiting.

But they weren't.

Everything seemed normal, in fact. No cops, no strange cars parked in the street, nothing. Hands trembling, he pulled into his narrow driveway. When he finally pulled into the garage behind the house, he put the truck in park and killed the engine.

"Lord," he whispered aloud, "if you let me off this time I swear, I swear I'll never do that again. I swear it."

George wasn't religious. But prayers like that had worked in Vietnam. It'd been that long since he'd needed them. He got out of his truck.

When he entered the house through its side entrance he was amazed at how quiet everything was. It was disconcerting. Mary wasn't there, cooking dinner or watching TV. She'd left him, he remembered. Shit.

But also, the loud rock music that usually came from his daughter's room upstairs wasn't to be heard, either. Strange.

He began to grow nervous again. Maybe she'd left. Maybe his little girl had hiked up to the police station, or was at a neighbor's house. Or maybe, he thought optimistically, she simply ran away. Maybe she was on the streets of the Cleveland ghetto right now, officially becoming the whore he knew she was.

Then he saw her little silver purse on the kitchen counter. She hadn't run away. She was still in the house.

He knew that he wasn't going to be able to relax until he confirmed this, though. After all, it was too much to ask for. So George, walking softly, went to the stairs. He ascended them. He stood in front of his little girl's door. And then he knocked.

At first there was no response, and his hopes began to fade. She was at a police station; she was being counseled by some tight-assed D.A., who was getting every detail possible, every detail they'd need to send him prison for the rest of his life. The next sound he was going to hear was sirens.

He was wrong. There were no sirens. Instead he heard the soft and fragile voice of his little girl asking, "What?"

He didn't know what to say. "Can I come in?" he asked.

He heard a rustling inside the room. Finally: "Okay."

He turned the knob and pushed open the door. His girl, his little brat of a daughter, was lying on her bed. She looked terrible. Still sexy as always, but terribly sick, her face was pale, her hair was disheveled. It looked like she'd been lying there all day. The covers of her bed were pulled right up to her chin, and she was eying him like he was the devil, but her stare was weak and sad and pathetic.

"I just," he began to say before stopping. He sounded scared, he realized. I shouldn't sound scared, he thought.