A Letter to Daddy. (short story)
 

"Mommy, where's daddy?" The small five-year-old girl asked tugging at her mother's shirt. Her blue eyes looked up at her mother waiting for an answer as her blond curls danced around her. Her mother looked down at her patting her head gently.
"He's away on a business trip sweetie." Her mother smiled.
"When is he coming home?" She asked impatiently. Her small figure bouncing slightly.
"I don't know baby. Mommy hasn't heard from him since he left." Her mother tried to look confident, though she was concerned about what had happened to her husband. No calls. He had only left early that morning to drive up to Maine from their home in Virginia.
"Can write letters for him?" The little girl missed her father and wanted him to come home and play with her. Her mother walked into the small living room in their apartment and sat down turning on the tv. The news channel was on, a bad accident had happened on one of the routes going North. The woman listened and froze as she recognized the car that was smashed under a large cement truck.
The woman turned up the volume shakily listening to every word the reporter said. They had pulled the man driving the truck to the side and held the microphone to his face, the camera zooming in on his face. "M-my brakes gave out and I wasn't paying attention to the construction that was going on further up the road....I-I didn't mean to kill him..." The man choked out as an officer grabbed the man's arms and hand-cuffed them behind his back.
The camera switched over to the reporter zooming in on her with the ambulances and police cars in the background. "The man in the 1986 Buick has yet to be removed from the car. Officers and medics are working on prying him out from the flattened car." The woman sat on the edge of the couch trembling. Her husband drove the same kind of car. It was white too. Just like the one on the tv.
The camera had wandered over to the scene zooming in as police pulled a mangled body from the debris of the car. The medics brought over a stretcher with a bodybag open. They lifted the lifeless body into the bag and pulled out the wallet from the man's pocket. Zipping up the bag, an officer walked over the tape line and the reporter approached him.
"Excuse me officer," the reporter began, "may we know who the victim was?" The officer looked reluctantly at the camera and then opened up the tattered wallet reading the i.d. card aloud. "Mr. Samuel Billingston. Age 33. Salem, Virginia." The officer nodded and closed the wallet walking to his car and driving away.
The woman dropped the remote and stared at the tv blankly. The little girl walked in and stopped looking at her mother worried. "Mommy...what's wrong?" The girl hesitantly walked over to her mother and tugged at her sleeve. Her mother turned off the tv and laughed softly looking at her daughter. "Nothing sweetie. Mommy just found out that daddy's not coming home."
"Why not?"
"The people at the place he went to want him to stay and work there. You should be proud of daddy."
"So I can send him letters right mommy?" The woman froze and then smiled.
"Of course you can. Why don't you go and write one now. I'm sure he'd love to read one. I'll send it to him as soon as you're done." The little girl grew excited and ran to her room grabbing a piece of paper and a crayon from her small table. She laid on the floor and began to scribble big letters.
Minutes later, she came running out handing her mother the note. "See? I wrote him a note and drew a picture of us at the bottom!" She giggled. "Want me to read it to you?" She looked up at her mother beaming a smile. She crawled onto her mother's lap and began to read the scribbles.
"Dear daddy. Please come home. I miss you and I want you to play with me and mommy. I know work is important, but we miss you more. I can't wait until you come home. Then we can be a family again. I love you. Lilly." Under the words were three stickfigures holding hands and smiling.
Her mother held her closely and took the letter folding it and sticking it in her pocket. She sent her daughter off to her bed for a nap and tucked her in kissing her forehead. The woman walked out of her daughter's room shutting the door and walking to her own room. She closed the door and put the note under her mattress. She pulled out a piece of paper and began writing.
"My baby girl. Thank you so much for your letter. I loved your picture and I hope to keep getting letters from you. You and mommy be good while I'm gone. I love you so much. Daddy."

As she walked into my studio I could tell she would want me to paint one of my special pictures but which one it was I was not sure. She had an air of affluence about her so she didn't want a fortune painting and she looked happy with her life so I assumed she didn't want the normal happy type picture that most of my clientèle wanted. She had the appearance of a woman who had everything in life that she wanted and a lifestyle that people would kill for and yet there was something about her that troubled her so much that she had to seek me out for one of my special paintings. It normally takes a while for my customers to tell me what they really want and this particular lady was no exception. She was young and beautiful and she knew it and the world was literally her playground but as with everyone, be they rich or poor, there is always something in life that they can not have. I really should have taken heed of my instincts to not get involved from the start but it was too late once the painting had been completed and delivered and no way could the events that followed be stopped. I found out at an early age that the pictures I drew and painted for other people had the effect of changing their lives into whatever they desired and although I kept this as secret as possible it was inevitable that I would one day find myself in the situation I am now, painting whatever anyone wanted if the price was right and in this case the cost was $1,000,000. In the past I have made people rich simply by painting a few dollar bills on my canvas and charging just a fraction of that person’s wealth as their fortunes mounted. I have painted children for infertile couples and then had the pleasure of being invited to the christening. On numerous occasions I have painted happy pictures for depressed people and sat back and watched as they have turned their lives around and started enjoying life again but this time the story was different with deadly consequences and the pay off for me was immense. A couple of days before the lady in question visited my studio I had taken a commission for an older gentleman and the picture was to be delivered only in the event of his untimely demise being proved to be unlawful and for an up front payment of $1,000,000 I readily painted what was requested. A few days after the lady's painting was delivered I read about the untimely death of the old gentleman and as promised his painting was duly dispatched as requested. The lady was married to the old man but was tired of him and only wanted the life style that his wealth could give her and it was greed that brought her to me and I had agreed to paint the picture, it was simply a man with his neck in a noose and sure enough the old man was found hanging like a rag doll. As I packed up my studio and prepared to move on I found little solace in the knowledge that the last image the lady would see would be the barrel of a loaded gun as she unwrapped the painting from her deceased husband but with $2.000,000 to play with I could live with it!!! :twisted:

i feel mean about that story so heres a nicer one, very sad, i didnt write it.

HOW COULD YOU? by Jim Willis, 2001

When I was a puppy, I entertained you with my antics and made you
laugh. You called me your child, and despite a number of chewed shoes and a
couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was
"bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" -- but then
you'd relent and roll me over for a bellyrub.

My housebreaking took a little longer than expected, because you were
terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of
nuzzling you in bed and listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and
I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks
and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone
because "ice cream is bad for dogs" you said), and I took long naps in the
sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.

Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and
more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted
you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad
decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in
love. She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" -- still I welcomed her into
our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because
you were happy.

Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was
fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them
too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of
my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to
love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."

As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and
pulled themselves up on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigate
my ears, and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them and
their touch -- because your touch was now so infrequent -- and I would have
defended them with my life if need be. I would sneak into their beds and
listen to their worries and secret dreams, and together we waited for the
sound of your car in the driveway.

There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you
produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me.
These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had
gone from being "your dog" to "just a dog," and you resented every
expenditure on my behalf.

Now, you have a new career opportunity in another city, and you and they
will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the
right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only
family.

I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It
smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the
paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged
and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a
middle-aged dog, even one with "papers." You had to pry your son's fingers
loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take
my dog!" And I worried for him, and what lessons you had just taught him
about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about
respect for all life. You gave me a good-bye pat on the head, avoided my
eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a
deadline to meet and now I have one, too.

After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your
upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home.
They shook their heads and asked "How could you?" They are as attentive to
us here in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of
course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my
pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you that you had changed your mind


I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day, and I padded
along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She
placed me on the table and rubbed my ears, and told me not to worry. My
heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a
sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days.

As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears
weighs heavily on her, and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.
She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her
cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many year
ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the
sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily,
looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?" Perhaps because she
understood my dogspeak, she said "I'm so sorry." She hugged me, and
hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place,
where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for
myself -- a place of love and light so very different from this earthly
place.

And with my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my
tail that my "How could you?" was not directed at her. It was you, My
Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you
forever. May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.



A Note from the Author:
If "How Could You?" brought tears to your eyes as you read it, as it did to
mine as I wrote it, it is because it is the composite story of the millions
of formerly owned pets who die each year in American & Canadian animal
shelters. Anyone is welcome to distribute the essay for a noncommercial
purpose, as long as it is properly attributed with the copyright notice
Please use it to help educate, on your websites, in newsletters, on animal
shelter and vet office bulletin boards. Tell the public that the decision
to add a pet to the family is an important one for life, that animals
deserve our love and sensible care, that finding another appropriate home
for your animal is your responsibility and any local humane society or
animal welfare league can offer you good advice, and that all life is
precious. Please do your part to stop the killing, and encourage all spay &
neuter campaigns in order to prevent unwanted animals.