Teely's Harsh Rememberance

She sat alone in the middle of the room contemplating the worth of a life. Her eyes cast down, sullen and cold remembering the sight she held the night before. She thought about the last breath that escaped from the twitching body on the floor. She thought about her mother, holding the knife that now dripped with the blood of her father. Daddy, the heartless bastard, got what he deserved, finally. The whimpers of her mother now filled her ears and she remembered seeing the tears fall to the floor co-mingling with the blood. Teely was a good girl, a modest girl with long blonde hair, tresses that sparkled in the early morning sun. She was never understood by her peers, never really given a chance to enter the cliques that surrounded her youth. She was a strange little girl, somewhat enchanted one might say. She spoke to the wind and listened to the sun. You’d swear she actually got answers to her inquisitions regarding the alignment of the planets and atmospheric change.
Teely’s relationship with her father was strained from the beginning. Her father, a cold, hard, insensitive man, never saw the beauty in his number one daughter. She was his first child, alive with the promise of life and love but drawn by a strange power unseen by humanity. Teely called her father Popi and Popi never got it. Popi was ever concerned with his station in life and the many dreams he’d forfeited along the way. As time flew by he became more hardened to life, not choosing the love of family. His anger and abuse took on a fiendishly awful face, the face that looked to hurt and hurt deep. The verbal and physical assaults became a daily ritual and Teely’s life became a living hell, intensified with each brutal blow. The world she grew into was darkened by the pain she endured on a regular basis. Teely’s mother suffered too and with much more severity. She would soon come to know the depth of the sickness that Popi dished out.
Tawni was a strong, fine woman alive with hopes and dreams of her own that Popi seldom acknowledged. She was an artist, poet, songwriter with a golden voice that could melt the heart of Satan himself. Her sweet undertones lulled anyone within earshot to a gentle, peaceful place. From a young age Tawni had the advantage of privilege. Her mother and father were successful business people, each in their own field of expertise. Tawni never wanted for anything and lived her life with the understanding that she would be well cared for at every turn. Years later Tawni would admit that she never loved nor cared for Popi and that their marriage was a marriage of convenience. Popi was a man of means and he would take her away from her parents who exhibited overpowering control over her life. She felt smothered by the incessant questioning regarding her whereabouts and with whom she chose to spend time. But a few years into the relationship she realized that Popi had a mean streak and that someday it would have to be confronted.
10 years and 3 days into the marriage Tawni took the opportunity to stand up to Popi. With a scream and a shout, and a glancing blow Tawni sprawled to the floor. Blood ran from her nostrils and a fire began to rage within. For many years she’d taken the abuse and the control. She’d stood silently as Popi degraded and berated Teely. She now knew the cost of her silence and what must be done. As the rage grew deep within she acted with fierce brutality. As if in a dream she held the knife and sunk it deep into the back of Popi’s neck, She felt the crackling of sinew and cartilage as she pulled it out and stabbed again almost with a gleeful laugh. Her eyes were aflame with delight as Popi knelt to the floor, blood spurting from his severed veins. Now it was over, Popi’s lifeless body twitched and struggled for breath but all the breath he could pull in escaped with a hiss from the gauged neck. Tawni was finished, Popi was finished, now Teely would live with the horror of the slaying.

Michael J. Dwyer 2008

Teely's Harsh Rememberance


Joined October 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

A short story of a child’s memory revisited

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