“Daddy!” Jonathan yelled.

Morris Windom, a widower nearing middle age, cocked his head to be sure he heard right. He guessed the boys were fighting again. Jonathan and his older brother, Wayne. Twelve and fourteen years of age, respectively.  He put the dishcloth down so that he could go check just as he had time after time.

“I’m coming boys.”

When Morris entered the boys’ bedroom, he stopped short. Not believing what he saw before his eyes, he tensed and tried to think quickly. Wayne was holding a revolver to Jonathan’s head. A real revolver and no toy, he assumed.

“Now just take it easy, Wayne,” he began. “I’ll take that gun, slow and easy.”

“I’ve had it with this asshole of a brother!” Wayne said, unevenly. “I won’t take any more shit from ‘im.”

“He’s your brother in blood, Wayne,” Morris reminded his older son. “Your only brother. And I’m your father. Please do as I say. Now give me the gun, slowly.”

“He’s gonna apologize before I put it down,” Wayne said.

“I’m not! Didn’t do anything,” Jonathan replied.

Morris began moving slowly toward the boys. He hoped Wayne didn’t have any drugs in his system at the moment. He knew he took them regularly when away from home. His attendance at school was irregular.

“I’m serious, Daddy,” Wayne warned. “I’ll blow him out to sea.”

“I love you, Wayne,” Morris said softly. “You and Jonathan. I’m your dad. It’s my job to settle this.”

Morris was getting closer. Suddenly Wayne turned the gun toward his dad. Jonathan couldn’t get loose cause his neck was in a vise made by Wayne’s strong forearms.

“Dad,” Wayne said again, but Morris didn’t stop moving.

Wayne fired. The bullet hit Morris between the shoulder and his heart, knocking him on the floor on his back.

“Daddy!” screamed Jonathan, struggling to get free.

Wayne had trouble believing he’d actually pulled the trigger. Still, he was filled with hatred against the world. He was tired and weary.

Morris tried to get to his feet but couldn’t. He looked at both his sons. The pain he felt was obviously sharp and was weakening him.

“Go on, son,” he stammered to Wayne as tears began to flow down his cheeks. “Finish the job. Don’t leave me a cripple, boy.  Finish the job.”

Wayne felt panicky and sweaty. He wanted out of the house. Only a few seconds had passed. Biting his lower lip, he pulled the trigger once more. He could tell the bullet hit near where the first one went in. Maybe he got the heart this time. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it?  His dad crumpled on the floor a second time. He was quiet. With that, Wayne released the hold on his younger brother, who called out to his father as he fell over him.

“Daddy! Daddy, can you hear me?”

“Fucking asshole,” Jonathan heard Wayne say. He stuck the revolver in his jeans and ran out of the house.

END OF “DADDY, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”