The choices we make in life can be right, or they can be wrong. But can they be both right and wrong at the same time? I don't know the answer to that. Only at the end of one's life do we ever find out for sure. Enjoy the story.
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I poked the barrel of the shotgun into the man's back urging him to keep walking. It was a late fall evening and the stars twinkled brightly in the sky despite the presence of a full moon. The air was crisp and cold, yet my face was sweating profusely under the ski mask that covered my head. We were the only souls around in this section of desert thirty-odd miles outside of Las Vegas. I prodded the grumbling man once more in the back, sick of his pathetic whining and his demands to know what he had done. He knew what he'd done; and he knew what was coming. You don't get kidnapped and taken out to the desert by a guy with a shotgun without figuring out what was coming. Fifty more yards and we reached the spot I wanted. Before us was an abandoned mine shaft that I had discovered many years ago while hunting with friends. It was just large enough, and deep enough for my needs. The man stopped and turned to face me; he kept asking me who I was. Slowly I removed the ski mask and watched as his eyes grew wide with fear and all the blood drained from his face. "You!" he shouted. The blast from the shotgun echoed off the distant hills.
In order for me to explain why I had made this life changing choice, I must first give you a little background of what my life was like when I was growing up. My name is Ben Rogers, and this is my story.
For the first ten years of my life I thought of us as a normal family. My mother Madeline, everyone called her Mady, and my father Bill seemed to be the perfect couple. Mom was the perfect housewife and Dad was a successful businessman. There were the occasional fights, and I was aware of the bruises on Mom's arms and legs. She had insisted that they were the results of her and Dad rough housing and I had believed her. She was my mother after all, a woman I adored, she wouldn't lie to me.
While Mom spent as much time with me as possible, Dad did just the opposite. He shunned me for reasons I wouldn't find out about until I reached the ripe old age of fifteen. By then I knew Mom's rough housing story was a complete fabrication. It was her way of keeping me from knowing the truth. It was during one of their increasingly frequent fights that I heard Dad accuse Mom of bearing someone else's kid. At first I didn't understand what he meant; I was an only child. I knew the accusation couldn't be true since I looked just like him in so many ways. Other than being gangly as hell I resembled him to a T. I had short brown hair; smoldering brown eyes, and stood just as tall as his six feet. The only thing I didn't inherit from him was his ability to make people like me. Where he was outgoing, I on the other hand had trouble making friends. This was fine with me; it meant that I could spend more quality time with Mom.
Shortly after I turned sixteen I learned that Dad was being investigated by the IRS for shady business practices. Nothing came of it, but Dad felt it prudent to transfer everything we owned into Mom's name. Not long after that the beatings started coming on a more regular basis. My pleas for Mom to leave him fell on deaf ears. There were even times she actually seemed to get angry with me for bringing up the subject. It was around this time that I had started referring to him as "The Bastard" instead of Dad. That didn't sit well with Mom, but she never punished me for it.
My rage finally boiled over when I was eighteen years old and fresh out of high school. I heard the screams coming from my parent's bedroom and then the sounds of flesh hitting flesh. I knew that sound like I knew the back of my hand. It was the sound of my Dad hitting my Mom. Again. I jumped off the couch and got to their bedroom door just in time to see my father pulling back his fist to strike her again. Something inside me snapped. Rushing forward I slammed my own fist into the side of his head. The only thing that accomplished was, it broke my wrist, and made him turn his attention toward me. He caught me in the side of my head with a right cross sending me flying into their dresser before sprawling out on the floor.
"When you think you're man enough to try that shit again, let me know," he sneered at me, then stomped off leaving Mom and I in heaps on the floor.
Through teary eyes I looked over to where she sat leaning against the bed. She had a goose egg on her forehead and the front of her blouse was ripped almost completely off. There was a trickle of blood coming from her nose. I crawled on hands and knees over to her and then wrapped my arms around her shaking shoulders. She buried her face in the side of my neck and silently wept.
"Why do you stay with him Mom," I asked in frustration.
I got the same answer as all the other times I'd asked that question.
"Because I love him, and he does love me too."
"If he loves you, why does he do this to you," I asked bitterly.
"He just gets frustrated with things, and I come along and say or do something stupid. He tells me how sorry he is later, you know that."
"Yeah. And in a week, or a month from now he'll do the same thing. Just leave him," I pleaded.
"And do what? He takes good care of us, and don't you forget it mister," she replied, anger evident in her voice.
I helped her to her feet and gave her a once over that turned into a lingering stare. She stood there with one hand rubbing the goose egg while her other hand absently fingered the torn pieces of her blouse. Her thick shoulder length brown hair was disheveled, and other than the goose egg and trickle of blood around her nostril, she looked okay. There was one other thing; she wasn't wearing a bra. A fact that she seemed to be oblivious to. I wasn't however. I tried to look away but I couldn't pull my eyes off the firm round globes that sat proudly on her chest. Creamy white skin topped with dark brown areolas and pointy nipples. My dick began to swell in my jeans at the same time her eyes noticed my intense stare. Color jumped to her face as she swiftly turned her back to me and tried to hide her exposed breasts. The fact that I'd gotten aroused by the sight of my own mother's tits sickened me. I ran from the room and hid in my bedroom for two days, only coming out to get something to drink or eat. I spent most of that time remembering the years of seeing bruises and black eyes on Mom's face and arms. It was during those two days that I grew to realize that if I didn't leave I'd probably do something stupid.
That incident had taken place a little over four years ago. I had kissed my mother goodbye and joined the army. She had wept crocodile tears, but didn't try to stop me from leaving. I found out that I was pretty good at being a soldier. I bulked up, learned to fight, and lost my cherry to some skank during a twenty-four hour pass in Amarillo. Life was good.
Mom stayed in touch with me, but she had to sneak the letters she wrote over to my Aunt Penny's to get mailed. Apparently my father had disowned me. There were even a few occasions when Mom and Penny arranged for her to call me on base. Mom would never tell me how things were going with her and Dad, but Aunt Penny filled me in on all the beatings she knew about. My hatred grew.
Each year I was allowed thirty days of leave; this year I had saved it all up. With permission from my commanding officer I took it all at the same time. I was going home for the first time since leaving. Aunt Penny and I had made plans to surprise Mom.
