The Consequences of Responsibility

March 18, 2011

The following story is my first foray into flash fiction. It’s for Chuck Wendig’s blog terribleminds and the theme is Baby Pulp. That’s right. You read that correctly.

The details of the hows and whys and what were they, as in Chuck and I, thinking can be found at his blog. Chuck and his wife are expecting their first baby, a boy, and my wife and I are expecting ours, a girl. Thanks to the power of Twitter and the anticipation of countless sleepless nights…the theme of Baby Pulp was born.

Here’s my first ever flash fiction entry. Hope you like it. The only rules were stick to the theme and a thousand words. This one is 996. Post a comment if you can. Let me know what you think.

Courtesy of MorgueFile.com

The Consequences of Responsibility
By Anthony Schiavino

It’s 4 A.M.

A loud piercing cry wails in my ear not two inches away.

“Shhhh…come on kid. Please.”

To tell you the truth that did as much as a pea shooter going up against a tank. Doesn’t matter what your aim is like or how many rounds you fire. You lose every single time.

But this time though, we’ll both lose big if I can’t get her to keep her trap shut. When you’ve got an army of thugs coming after you, in the middle of the night, after you’ve been running for two days straight…at what point is it considered child abuse…

I’m on edge.

I did my best with what I have.

Not like there’s a guidebook.

I shoved a pacifier in her mouth and took my own out of its holster. Delirium set in. Shadowed slats fall across my face trying to bring order to the past couple of days that bled across my mind.

I was on a job. Nothing glamorous. Your typical P.I. missing persons. A 15 year old boy disappeared and the local P.D. weren’t doing jack beyond a press release. Was either a runaway or dead. So his parents hired me.

Just as I’m about to knock, shots erupt a couple doors down. Startled, my fedora fell clean off my head. I picked it up as a door slammed open and more shots fired, blowing out plaster instead of brain and bone, where my head would have been.

I pulled out my .45 and fired the hell back. If I was going out then somebody was coming with me. Douche one got it in the leg, nicking a major artery, and the bastard fell. Douche two lucked out and took off.

That’s when I heard a baby’s cry. I approached expecting more guns blazing. I had maybe two rounds left. But when I looked inside all I found were two dead, execution style, and the wailing. I’m guessing they were the parents.

Apparently she’d been fast asleep until the gunfire. I looked down in that crib seeing pure innocence and a future filled with pain. If I hadn’t seen my fair share already, my jaded reality of the world, I probably would have shed a tear. Not like she would have done better with those two alive. But it was anger that welled inside me. The kind of anger that makes you want to hit back but there wasn’t anything you could do about it.

Except I would.

I wrapped her in a blanket. But she wouldn’t stop crying.

“It’s alright little one.”

She wanted her momma. But momma laid face down dead, bleeding out in the next room by a coward that murdered her. Possibly the one in the hallway.

Life always presents itself with options, especially for guys like me. I could’ve put her back down and walk away. That would’ve been the rational thing to do. Maybe a neighbor would’ve walked in and took care of her.

Sure I’m jaded but I’m not heartless. I never married and I had my fair share of women. There’s no way in hell I’d be a perfect father. I never once thought of trying. But after looking at that face, through the terrible crying, awkwardly holding her as if she’d break in my hands…I just couldn’t walk.

This little girl was a sense of hope in my darkness and I wouldn’t let hers be extinguished.

Plus my bullets were in that soon to be corpse already; self-defense or otherwise.

I brought a baby to a gunfight. The piece of trash in the hallway was in a world of hurt. The cops would be on their way soon. In this part of town it wouldn’t be that soon so I still had some time to kick the guy’s teeth in. With a baby strapped to my back, and a diaper bag over my shoulder, I pulled him up by his hair.

Just one word. “Who?”

He had maybe five minutes and that was being generous. His bowels already let go. Better sooner than later I guess. He fell into shock. So at this point he’d say anything. That’s just how the mind works. Nothing like those tough guys in the movies. He gave me a name. I’d find out the rest.

The little plan I had worked right up to me finding his digs, taking out my gun, and knocking on the door. After that it went to hell.

I saw his gun drawn as the door swung open even before I saw his face. He wasn’t waiting for me to ask if Boris could play and I put him down cold. Everything behind him filled with out of focus red rage and my own stupidity.

Survival instinct said run.

Now keep in mind this guy who’d never been a father, uncle, whatever and never planned on being one, has this baby strapped to his back ten minutes before. What’d I know? What I did know was that if I went in with her strapped to me, front or back, she’s a human shield one way or another. So go ahead and call child services. I hid her on a stairwell. Kid didn’t make a peep. Maybe I am cut out for fatherhood after all.

I scooped her up and took off. But not before I did some damage.

Two days later, here we are back at my own apartment.

I sit here, nowhere else to go and not wanting to be anywhere else, rocking this little sense of hope I named Chloe to sleep. My .45 held tight in hand, watching over us.

Just waiting.

So exhausted.

Four in the damn morning.

Thank God she stopped crying already.

I just need to sleep for a few…

That’s all.

Whiskey.

Coffee.

The neighbors must hate me even more.

“Hush little baby, don’t say a word…”

Forgot to pay the electric bill. Shit.

I hear the lock turn over.

Chloe…

The Consequences of Responsibility (C) 2011 Anthony Schiavino

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