• sinjanb93 27w

    @mirakee @mirakeeworld @writersnetwork @writerstolli @novelrazy #pod #novel #mystery #murder

    The History of violence finds protagonist Adam Cole from leading a simple bartender's life to killing for a cause. However, little does he know that the world where he stepped onto is reminiscent of a violent past. That makes family a weakness...

    Read More

    History of Violence (Continued)

    My truck juggled along the smooth highway of 69th street, as I kept racking my head around what transpired in the bar.

    Questions were pounding my head that evening, and I a dull throb behind the eyes was not proving to beneficial in declaring the day productive by the end.

    "Cynthia?.....How did they know about her?........What could possibly interest them in her?"

    Before I decided to ask my daughter the same, the garage came in view. I pulled over in a slow trundle, rather than the usual swiftness. That probably said a lot about my mood.

    Now let's talk about my daughter- not the aspect of her painting her hair different shades of colors, wearing tight slacks so that more and more teenage boys got attracted to her, and a top that barely reached her belly button.
    Offcourse! I am not a sexist. I know she has freedom to do whatever she pleases. Except you had to obey the 80's United States society.

    Things were changing fast, and it was difficult to cope.

    Drug peddling, rape, robbery, vandalism, and a host of others. I know that her college had a different brand of all these, and they didn't share my personality.

    Not two days ago, she met her friend Sandra in the backyard. I saw they exchanged some party drugs. The one you people call 'Molly'.

    Meanwhile, I closed my car door and walked towards the house. No sooner had I reached the porch, than I saw the door slightly unlocked.

    I reached the window sill and found the slit where I kept my self-defense-a kitchen knife.

    With that I gently pushed the door open. Surprisingly, everything inside was in order. I went around from the main room to the lobby, and even the bedroom to the bathroom. Not a glass vase was upturned.

    I let go myself on the sofa. It was quite an exhausting day, and things were turning out stranger with time.

    It was at that exact moment, when I heard the backyard door tapped shut.

    The keys laid out on the kitchen counter, and in came Cynthia.

    "How was your day?", she asked looking equally exhausted, with a sweaty mop of hair that went to her back and a bag load that looked like a refugee remembered all her provisions before leaving Sudan.

    "A bit quiet than usual",I replied.

    She pulled few strands of her hair back behind her ears in a nervous expression. The conjured up a fake smile to march upstairs.

    That cast a wierd suspicion on my end. However, I was failing to see how.

    I stood up and went to the living room mantelpiece.

    A black and white image glowed with my reflection. It was the boys and me, our glory days behind us. The Nam war was still afresh in our mind.

    My medals though losing its lustre, marked the violent past left behind.