Editor’s Note: This is the seventh in a fictional series entitled “Danny Boy.” To catch up with the entire series, you can read these in chronological order:
Fiction Friday #1: Danny Boy – Promises Broken
Fiction Friday #2: Danny Boy – Moving Up the Ranks
Fiction Friday #3: Danny Boy – Redemption
Fiction Friday #4: Danny Boy – For Viv
Fiction Friday #5: Danny Boy – Outside the Lines
Fiction Friday #6: Danny Boy – Until We Meet Again
He held her red locks away from flying chunks of vomit as she knelt over the toilet. He dabbed the vomit and saliva from her face. Raccoon faced with makeup caked around her half-masted green eyes.
“You’re so good to me, baby,” she slurred in a drunken state. Danny petted Millie’s tousled hair. He wished to take back what just happened in the dark hotel room with each stroke.
Earlier that day, Richie “the Henchmen” picked the lock of the hotel room while Danny stood behind him pacing in his tightly fitted mafia suit. “We got to take care of this punk,” Richie said. “But, I’m not sure if Mil was even with Marty,” pleaded Danny.
Richie stopped picking the lock, and drew up close to Danny’s face. “Get this through your head, kid. She’s a whore, a drunk. And she’s cheating on you with the scum of the earth – a Sambino. Don’t you get it?” he said.
Richie continued to tinker with the lock. Finally, the door cracked open slightly. Danny could hear Millie’s giggles.
“Get in there, kid. Be a man. Take care of the punk,” whispered Richie. Danny stumbling backwards threw up his hands. Richie put the gun in his hand. Danny was frozen. “Pussy,” Richie mocked.
He snapped back into the moment at the toilet. Looking at the back of Millie’s head, he noticed the dried blood mixed in with her fiery red hair. The one of five bullets Richie shot must have grazed her from the .22 handgun.
“I’m sorry for what I did,” she said. “I don’t deserve you.” The phone rang from the other room.
Danny suddenly warped back in time to the shrilling ring of the phone in the hallway of his childhood home in the dead of night. Awoken by the ring of the telephone, wearing his canary yellow-footed pajamas, he cried while dragging his matted brown teddy bear. “Mommy, mommy, mommy!” he screamed.
He could hear the booming voice of his father from the master bedroom. “Bitch, you fuckin’ drunk,” he yelled. “Danny doesn’t deserve you, whore.”
Little Danny’s cries grew louder.
Danny stared at the tapping pencil of the state penitentiary’s state-appointed psychologist. “Danny? Danny? Are you with me, son?” asked Doctor Evans. “Uh, yeah,” said Danny.
The doctor scribbled on the steno pad. “Interesting, correlation of the two incidents, Danny, between Millie and your mother,” said the doctor. “The Freudian-labeled phenomenon of choosing someone who either looks like, acts like, or thinks like one of your parents is extremely common. The reason is actually pretty simple. Your mother or father were your first and most important childhood love objects. Little boys love their mothers smell, her look, her laugh,” he explained.
Danny leaned back in the wooden chair crossing his arms. “So, even if you’re mother is a drunken, whore? Does that count, Doc?” The doctor explained that even the flaws of another person are replicated to a significant other, such as a girlfriend, or wife.
“What if you killed ‘em both – the ‘significant other’ and the mother,” joked Danny. The doctor squinted his eyes. This was a darker, colder side of Danny he had not seen until now. He was finally making some headway into the gruesome life of this little boy – now stuck in the body of a tortured grown man.
“I guess if I’m my dad then, I’m a cold-blooded killer, uh?” asked Danny.
Suddenly the bell rang and red light lit up signaling the end of the session. The doctor stood up to shake Danny’s hand. “Good luck testifying today, Danny.”
“No luck, needed, Doc. I’m doing this one for my mom and Mil,” he said, while shuffling away in shackles.
“Gonna’ make my mom proud today,” Danny said with a wink.
Once again, that was so much fun to write. Who would of thought I’d whip that up while my kiddos were turning summersaults at gymnastics. I love the unexpected. I love that I’m taking chances with my writing. Living my dream, every single day. Thank you, God.
Writing Prompt: This week, one of our most loveliest fellow fiction friends, Kelly Debie provided a visual prompt from one of my all-time favorite bands “The Police” with their song “Mother.” Classic; thank you, Kelly!
Don’t forget to check out my fellow fantastic fiction friends below!Follow