The Late Night Visitor and Other Short Stories
By Terry Tripp
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The Late Night Visitor and Other Short Stories - Terry Tripp
The Late Night Visitor and Other Short Stories
by Terry Tripp
Copyright © 2015, Terry Tripp
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of both publisher and author. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.
ISBN: 978-1-329-57752-7
The Late Night Visitor
It was that evening when he first developed an affinity for guns—an unexpected knock at the door interrupted his usual microwave dinner of Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes. Action scenes from the television cast a luminescent glow into the living room as he played with his rubber wrestling men on the shag carpet. His mother was in bed reading another 400-page novel, which would steal her full attention from anything going on in the real world. But he didn't mind because it was guy time with his dad, and scenes of Vietnam bloodshed and men practicing Karate didn't really hold his mother's attention too well.
After hearing the knock, his father looked to him with a silent glare that meant, Stay right there, and don't move. He then rushed to the back room and came out loading bullets into his rifle. The heavy rifle reminded him of something from a scene right out of the wood covered television box.
His father looked to him again before opening the door and said, Simon, keep your eyes open, okay?
Simon nodded faithfully.
The door opened, and a shadowed figure of a man stood backlit in the yellow porch light that attracted fluttering moths.
Feeling alarmed Simon waited as he tried to decide whether to go and get his mother. He looked to the heroic men on the television screen and decided against it. Instead, he paced back and forth making tracks in the still freshly vacuumed carpet until he hurried to the kitchen area to pull a barstool over to the front window. He climbed up on it, so he would be able to see through the mini-blinds. He wondered if he would be seen if he peaked through. What if his father needed some backup against this late night visitor?
Simon heard murmuring of a conversation over the television box and took a quick peek to find his father looking disturbed and deep in thought as he listened to the stranger. Simon tried to get a clear look at him, but his father's head seemed to block the stranger’s face every time he turned. He did notice that his father's rifle was no longer in his hands but slung across his shoulder in a safe position.
Observing a few more movements, Simon could tell that the man was a few years younger than his father. When his father caught Simon's eyes through the thin blinds, he shook his head in disapproval, so Simon hopped off the stool and went back to his wrestling toys with a few bites of his mashed potatoes, and he washed them down with a drink of watered down sweet iced tea.
After a long time had passed in the opinion of a six year old, Simon's father finally came back into the house. He seemed tired and worn, but when he saw his son waiting for him, he sat down on the couch near Simon and leaned forward to say, Son, always know that I love you. No matter what, or when, remember that your father loves you.
Simon barely heard his father's sincerity; his eyes were more focused on the rifle. Simon studied the scope that reflected light from the television set in its glass. His father put away the rifle, and they enjoyed the remainder of the action movie together before going to bed.
***
Almost 30 years later, Simon sat in front of his flat screen television that hung on the wall. In one hand was a remote control and in the other was his cell phone dimming into power saving mode with a text message still on the screen: I know you still have feelings for me, but you really need to understand that we'll never be together again. Please don't text me anymore. Goodbye, Simon.
He heard a noise hitting against the window. He knew it was probably branches being pushed by the wind, but he still picked up his pistol lying next to him on the couch to go investigate the noise. He took precautions such as these because he lived alone. Very alone.
Simon looked through thick, white, wooden blinds seeing that the sun was setting. This inspired him enough to tuck his gun into the back of his pants and step out into the windy evening.
The wind took control of this hair and clothes, blowing them wildly as he looked towards the remnant of the sun—a sky of vivid colors slowly fading to black. He remembered the text message again with a wince, which he had forgotten for a few seconds.
He wanted to talk to