The Long, Broken Road

Author's Disclaimer: This is very much like most of my stories; however, I reviewed some of the comments of my other stories and thought I would improve my writing ability. One of the things that were mentioned was that my stories were too short, and there wasn't much character development. And it's true. Most of my stories are "snap shots" rather than a photo album. In this particular story, I decided to write a "photo album" – or at least, attempt to do so. Hopefully, you will enjoy it and not see it as me rambling on and on.

On to my next point: if you know my writing, I'm not one to write a violent BTB. I believe revenge is best served by living life better than you were before. In this particular story, I've decided to go with a "failed" BTB. It actually starts several years after the failed BTB attempt and dealing with the consequences. There is a lot of emotional conflict and drama. And despite my other stories, there are a couple of sex scenes in this one.

I do welcome comments about the story, my writing, or whatever. Please note that I prefer to write in "Loving Wives" because of the melodrama of the story – not the melodrama of the comment section.

Thank you for reading.

*****

The sound of metal clanging on metal played like a cold percussion beat. The wheezing sound of a respirator joined in on every fourth beat. The black tiling of the walls reflected the light shining through the metal grating, which gave a muted red glow to the hexagonal hallway. The hallway, which seemed to go on forever in either direction, was segmented every ten feet with what appeared to be red sensors, tilting at an incline at waist level.

A black glove pressed one of the sensors, causing one of the walls to slide open with a whoosh. Inside, the room was nothing more than a non-descript cell with a single bench on the far side of the room. Lying on the bench were two young girls, ages eight and five. The older one was dressed in a white jumper and a slightly off-white padded jacket. Her brown hair was braided, with the ponytail encircling the crown of her head. She carried herself as if she was already within her teens, showing a rebellious front. The younger one was also dressed in white, but it was a simple white gown that wrapped around her small frame. Her demeanor expressed more of a sense of entitlement and that life was not fair to her at the moment.

My own voice resonated throughout the room as if it had been auto-tuned, "Girls, I am your father."

Both of the young girls cried out, "No!"

The older one said in defiance, "That's not true."

The younger one pouted, "That's impossible."

Before I could say anything more, the two girls ran past me and back out into the hallway. As I tried to chase after them, each step felt labored like my feet were fighting a magnetic pull upon my darkened metal boots. Once in the hallway, I was greeted with another vision. A svelte woman in her late twenties was dressed in every fan boy's wet dream, a metal bikini reminiscent of a slave outfit for a certain crime lord on a certain sci-fi desert planet. Her long brown hair was braided perfect. Her arms clung onto a physically fit man, dressed in a white shirt and black vest. He held a blaster pistol at the ready. The two girls were clinging on to the man's legs, similar to their mother's embrace of this thieving smuggler.

The slave woman said in a condescending tone, "Only you could be so bold."

The sound of a blaster pistol echoed down the hallway, knocking me over. The sound of respirator sounded more like gasping than actual breathing. Feelings of despair overwhelmed any sense of pain, choking my life energies away. The weight upon my heart threatened to destroy whatever was left of my soul. I was staring up at the darkened ceiling. The muted red glow consumed my vision.

I could hear an elderly man say to no one in particular, "He's more machine now than man. Twisted and evil."

–––-

I woke with a start, feeling claustrophobic. My heart raced a mile a minute as I gasped and struggled to find air. Without regard for getting dressed in anything other than my boxers, I ushered my way to my small apartment's balcony. The cool summer night breeze was like a refreshing breath of air. I leaned upon the wooded railing, overlooking the lights of the Music City. I found solace and peace, looking upon the "Batman Building" and Nashville's sky line. The muted sounds of the night brought me back to the present, calming me after that haunting vision.

"Star Wars hasn't scared me like that since the prequel trilogy," I offered to the city, perhaps confiding to one of the two entities that I trusted most. The Red Hot Chili Peppers had Los Angeles. I had Nashville.

"What was that, Stony?" queried a sleepy, feminine voice from within the dark recesses of my apartment.

Dismissively, I respond in a curt and definitive tone, "Nothing." My response must have answered the woman's curiosity as silence reigned within my apartment.

My name is Steve Brooks; however, everyone calls me Stony. I wished it was because of my chiseled physique; however, that would not be entirely accurate. Hardened and chiseled from prison stone, maybe but I was certainly not an Adonis by anyone's standards. When a man in his forties starts to go bald, he can still use the excuse that he's choosing to go bald by shaving his head. There's no fat on me, or at least not any more. The words "Stay Down" are emblazoned on my hands, each letter tattooed to the respective knuckle so that any onlooker can read the words appropriately. Five blacked dots graced my right hand, located between my thumb and forefinger.

Stony.

Seven years for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. By participating in anger management classes, taking music lessons, and acting on good behavior, my lawyer reduced my sentence to five years. In those five years, I learned an important rule. Let no one see your weakness. I don't care if you are taking it up the ass, getting cold cocked out in the yard, or getting a tattoo with a less than ideal tool set. You let no one see you cry. Let no one see your insecurities or failures. There are predators in prison. They will use your weakness against you, hold it over you until you submit and become their bitch.

I am no one's bitch. Not anymore.

–––-

Before the "Stone Age", I was your average computer nerd. I spent too much time playing Larry Leisure Suit video games, and not enough time learning social etiquette. I often wondered if I truly would go blind before I was twenty from the number of times "that I read" stolen Playboys for their literary Pulitzer Prize winning articles. And there is not a single nerd in existence who could deny that they wished like hell they could have recreated Lisa from Weird Science. In those days, I envied the power of Hollywood, which gave nerds like us the power to exact revenge on a fraternity filled with jocks.

Still, in time, I did manage to find a girlfriend that was just as nerdy as I was, and accepted me for all my faults and nerd-isms. In fact, she could quote as much as Monty Python's Quest for the Holy Grail as I could. And she was certainly a wicked, bad, naughty, evil Zoot that liked being tied down to a bed and spanked. Unfortunately, I would not comprehend the full extent of "Zoot's" evilness until it was too late. I was too busy getting real sex to realize that she was setting fire to the castle's beacon which was grail shaped.

Melanie Pierce ruled my world in college. Well, that and studying languages like FORTRAN, COBOL, C++, and any other foreign language that existed, like Klingon. We were a match made in heaven. She was the Princess Leia to my Han Solo. It was not long after we graduated from college that we would get married. I landed a decent job as a computer programmer. Melanie earned her degree; however, once Abigail was born, we decided that we could afford for her to be a stay at-home mom. And before you say anything, how were we supposed to know that eventually there'd be a porn star named Abbey Brooks back then? I was not Marty McFly.

Abby was the apple of my eye. She had daddy wrapped around her finger from the day that she was born. She was daddy's baby girl. I did my best to provide whatever support I could for my family. My wife and I shared "baby duties". It was not uncommon for programmers to thrive on nothing but Twinkies and two liter bottles of Mountain Dew. That 3AM disturbance from the baby crib often interrupted my time on the computer rather than sleep. We were a young family, just starting out, but we were getting by.

Three years later, we welcomed Alison into the world. I do not regret my daughter, despite her being an "oops". It's just that life started getting in the way. If anyone was to look back at my life, they would say that I jumped the shark a year or so after Allie was born. Bills, pageants, dance recitals, and whatever else mounted, demanding an increase in salary. Working long hours became the norm. If I was not in front of a computer writing code for some application, then I was designing web pages to supplement my income. All the while, Melanie demanded attention, while complaining how we don't have enough money. The girls wanted their daddy, which Melanie usually pushed towards me to force me away from the computer.

By the time Abby was eight, the fall was inevitable. I was just too lost in the computer screen searching for missing spaces, extra commas, and typos to notice. There was no warning shot over the bow, or at least not that I noticed. There was no robot crying out "Danger. Danger, Will Robinson."

Nothing.

One day out of the blue, Melanie is waiting for me at the house, along with two men. One was a Sheriff, who performed his duty and served me that dreaded manila envelope. The other guy was some asshole, known as Doug, and was there for moral support. He was also fucking the bitch. Or as they phrased it, they fell in love and decided it would be better that the world I built for my family would be better served with them as King and Queen. I could either be the court jester, or be ostracized. She even had the audacity to have my bags packed for me, so that I could leave my own house without further incident.

That one day.

Abby's aluminum softball bat was in close proximity. The rage of losing what I "programmed" overwhelmed me. I grabbed the softball bat and swung for the fences. Doug was not going to take my family from me. He was not going to usher me out of my own house. I laid into him, breaking ribs, knee caps, and whatever else I could hit. When Doug fell, Melanie tried to stop me; however, I pushed her away. In my bout of unbridled rage, I failed to grasp the severity of my situation. Abby and Allie were still in the house. They witnessed all of this. But I only saw red.

Eventually, the colors went from red to a myriad of red and blue. I was arrested for aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. A restraining order was placed upon me, restricting me from going anywhere near Melanie and my girls. There were stories promoting how men should beat the shit out of the men stealing their wives, while scorching the earth where the ex-wife stood. Just like those "coming of age" nerd movies, that was a Hollywood pipe dream. My expression of "manliness" sentenced me to seven years in prison with a Class C felony. With my soon-to-be ex-wife holding the keys to our bank account, I was left with a public defender. While I'm sure his heart was in the right place, I could guarantee you that Matt Damon or Tom Cruise was not going to portray him in a movie any time soon. No, Austin Pendleton would have suited this lawyer much better. In fact, I think John Gibbons would have done much better than my public defender.

Did you know that a parent still has to pay child support in the state of Tennessee, even if that parent is unemployed? This included serving time in prison. As Mark Twain once wrote, "... the departmental interpreters of laws in Washington can always be depended on to take any reasonably good law and interpret the common sense out of it." Fortunately, my nerdy ways in high school gave me enough foresight to plan for retirement once I got the programming gig. I withdrew all the money from the pension and set up automatic payments. There was not much left after paying restitution to the asshole. Don't worry. Judd Nelson proved that asshole is admissible in court under the First Amendment so it's acceptable for me to refer to Doug as asshole.

Did I forget to mention that my sentence also included restitution to the asshole, so he could pay his medical bills? Apparently, the criminal court judge and the family court judge must have decided that I'm the world's biggest prick. My wife got the house, the car, and child support. My split of the assets came in the form of my pension account. Again, thank God for foresight. Between the restitution fines, court costs, and child support, my pension account was drained to its last penny.

Any request to see my two daughters was denied or refused by their mother. It first started with "It's a bad idea, Steve. They are still having nightmares from your attack on their step-father." Oh yea, Melanie and Doug got married. The excuses then morphed into "It would just be too awkward, Steve. I think it would be best if we moved on with our lives." Moved on with their lives, as long as she got the child support check.

I'm not telling you this so you can throw a pity party for me. No, I am telling you this so you understand. And before I go any further, let me be clear. I gladly pay the child support. Abby and Allie need the financial support. They are my daughters, and I will make sure that I do my part to tend to their needs. I just regret that it falls into the hands of their mother and that asshole. And I resent the fact that I'm unable to even get visitation rights based on my violent behavior. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, I was an abusive father and husband.

Joe Kerr and Jack Napier said it best. That one day.

–––-

An arm snaked around my waist. A feminine form pressed into my back, breaking me of my reverie into the past.

"What's rattling around inside that head of yours, Stony?" she inquired.

I will admit. Her embraced felt good. It reminded me that not everyone in this world is a complete bitch or asshole. I wished I could say that the embrace was sexual, but that would make things complicated. Not to mention, someone would have to start playing Billy Idol's "Rock the Cradle of Love".

With anyone else, that stone barrier would have fallen full force. The reason for being called Stony would have reared its ugly head. For her, I tempered my response, "Good back to bed, Brette." There was not going to be a discussion about this.

Brette Butler was a petite blonde that had curves more dangerous than Jan and Dean's "Dead Man Curve". She had points of her own, sitting way up high. Way up firm and high. But more importantly, she had the voice of an angel. She could belt out any tune from Janis Joplin to Dolly Parton to Carrie Underwood. She was the daughter of a Los Angeles Dodgers fan and an obsessed Gone with the Wind fanatic. Her dad wanted to name her after one of his favorite baseball players, but having a girl put a damper on things. Her mom wanted to name her Scarlett, but they compromised and name her Brette Scarlett Butler. Apparently, her mother could rattle on about how Rhett and Scarlett would forever live on together in her name sake, but frankly I don't give a damn.

In a sleepy voice, Brette said as she let go of me, "Your guitar is by the door."

–––-

Music had always been a part of my life.

Before the "Stone Age", it wasn't as prevalent as it is now, but it was still there. I will never forget my first album: The Beatles' Yesterday and Today album. A friend gave it to me back when it wasn't cool to listen to the Beatles. It was after the 70s when classic rock and hard rock was hitting the air waves. It was before the Doors made their resurgence into pop culture, and before the Beatles anthology albums came out. It was given to me out of a love for music, not to be cool.

Music would later become background noise for me, but it was still useful. In high school, when I ran cross country, heavy metal blasted through my ear phones and dulled the mind so that I would not think about being tired or the pain of the prolonged endurance needed to run 3 consecutive six minute miles. Later, I would use it to distract me from everything but the task that I was working on, whether it was playing video games or writing up some program code. For those around me, I'm certain they were thankful that I wore headphones. Playing a song on infinite loop would have been maddening, but it's what I did to block out the world so I could focus on the task at hand.

But now? Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast. For those of you thinking I misquoted the phrase, you would be wrong. I will give you time to google the expression. See? I'm a nerd. I know these things. Why? I can't explain what goes on in my head sometimes. However, music has become my calm, my center. Ever since I took a Louisville Slugger to the asshole's head (lights), I relied on music to calm my rage. If it was not for plucking the strings on my first real six string, which was bought at a five and a dime, my rage would have no productive release. Despite all my rage, I would still be that rat in a cage. Music saved me from myself.

Ever since my eruption of rage, that filter that quelled my anger was gone. Same with my empathy. Those with a sad sob story can go fuck themselves. We all have a sob story. If you're not going to get yourself out of your own mess, don't come crying to me to fix it. Oh, and if I hear one more person spin that hand-outs are like a hand up, I will literally ripped their tongues out and lash them with it. Fuck their participation ribbons, too. Life is not fair. Life is not meant to be equal. If you fucking sit on your fat ass and wait for the world to plop rewards in your lap, you'll be waiting a long ass time. Hell, those who work their asses off some times have to purchase a big vat of Vaseline in order to take the shaft up their ass with minimal discomfort. You don't like where you are? Do something and change it. No one is going to do it for you.

Upon getting out of prison, I hated the world. No surprise there. All of my pension was drained due to restitution and child support. My parents had disowned me after such irresponsible behavior. I had become the black sheep of the family. In some circles, going to jail was no big deal. In my family? You were a pariah. That just didn't happen. All of my friends had just begun the family life and certainly didn't have time for an ex-con. And the one friend who I thought would be there for me until the end was sleeping with an asshole, withholding my children from me. Never marry your best friend. Because when she turns around to stab you in the back, you won't have anyone to turn to for comfort.

I had never been a truly religious man. I would often fall asleep during homilies, and went through the motions of saying whatever it is you're supposed to say on Sundays. And I know that everyone and their brother seem to believe that these Christians are Bible thumping crazy people like the West Baptist Church; however, people need to look past that. There are organizations doing good in the communities. I will forever have a place in my heart for the First Baptist Church. They helped me during that transition phase. They hooked me up with Project Return, an organization that helped me get a suit and provided a listing of jobs of companies that were felony-friendly. Without their help, I would never have been able to find a job and afford transitional housing and pay child support. In the great state of Tennessee, if you miss a child support payment, you can expect to spend up to ten days in jail. I'm not sure how that works, exactly, since you can't make money to pay your bills or stay employed at your job. I'm sure that law was written by an ex-wife.