anbwrites

Tasting Revenge (POV 1)

Posted on: May 19, 2013

Note:  This is the Point of View of the protagonist, Ross.

 

 

I couldn’t wait to get home for my grandson’s birthday party.

He was going to be turning six, and I promised my son and daughter-in-law that I would be there.  It was a sweltering day in one of Georgia’s most unforgivable summers.  I hit the grocery store on my way to the party for some last-minute items.

I went through each aisle to gather soda, chips, and also picked up a card that I thought Abel would like.  After checking out, I made my way to my Impala that I, regrettably, parked far away.  I was getting old and staying in shape wasn’t that easy for me.  So making small changes like walking farther to my car made a difference, or so I liked to think.

“Stop right there,” a voice said, and it took me a moment to decipher whether or not I was the one being addressed.

I looked around and saw that I was the only car parked in the area.  Damn, I thought.  I turned around slowly with my bags still in my hands and faced a man wearing a camouflage sweater and a hat pulled down far to shield his face.  His hand was extended, trembling slightly while trying to point his gun at me.  “Son, this ain’t a good choice that you’re makin’,” I began, yet he laughed nervously.

“It’s too late for that, old man,” he said.  “Get in your car, and listen to my directions.  Or else you’ll never make it to that party.”

I did my best to maintain my composure.  Fear that he knew my family and my plans gripped me tightly, yet I did as he said.  I followed his clear directions while on the road and ended up at a small ranch-style house in the middle of nowhere.  The closest landmark I had picked out was Clearwater Springs, a nice place to call home, or so the sign said.

The young man ushered me out of the car and I ended up stumbling due to my weak knee.  I muttered a curse under my breath as he jammed the barrel of the gun against my lower back.  “Come on, come on, get inside.”

“I ain’t as young and nimble as you are, junior.  A little respect for your elders would be nice right about now.”

He kicked the back of my bad knee and I fell forward onto the ground, dirt and dust spiraling around me.  I bit my tongue as I had been taught as a kid, knowing all too well that my tongue could be my downfall.  After all, that was often the cause of death in my family.  I sensed the man’s strength as he pushed me along, and decided the smart decision would be to not fight my way out of this—at least not physically.

I mulled over things as we walked into the house.  It smelled of wet dog and rotting chicken.  There were many pictures up of a man in uniform, who seemed to have fought for The Union back in the Civil War.  Other pictures were newer, and didn’t hold as much character.  I didn’t know who the people in the frames were, and still hadn’t seen the young man’s face to make any sort of comparison.

He shoved me down into a chair and pulled my hands behind the back of it before enclosing my wrists with a zip tie.  He checked the tightness of it and muttered under his breath as he got back onto his feet.  “Alright, I have to go get a few things from the shed before I get to work here.”

As he walked away, I turned around as best I could in the chair and caught a glimpse of his face as he removed his hat.  He wiped the sweat off of his forehead as he walked out.  He looked vaguely familiar, if my declining memory served right.  I spun around some more, my gaze landing on a jacket with a nametag on the front.  It read, “Rogers.”

Jackson Rogers, I thought with a grin.  “Well I’ll be damned.”

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