a mistake you'll never forgive: killian priesely.
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  1. #11
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    a mistake you'll never forgive: killian priesely.
    [ friday night risotto : part I ]

    "You think she's okay, Frank?" Marilyn asked from the kitchen, cleaning the shellfish at the sink.

    "She's fine." Her lazy husband was awkwardly sprawled on the couch, mostly channel surfing (lingering on various programs with attractive looking women for longer intervals of time).

    "I called her this morning, told her that I'm cooking her favorite risotto."

    "That was Anna's favorite."

    "No. It was Killian's. You don't think I know my own daughter?"

    "I wouldn't dream of it, Marilyn," he muttered, wondering if there was any Bud left in the fridge, "Although I don't have a fuckin' clue why you're making so much damn food when it's us and your fag kid."

    "Don't talk about him like that. He's your son too. He might not be of your blood, but you've been the only father he's known since he was six. And anyway, his boyfriend is coming over for dinner."

    "Oh great. A whole house of fags."

    "You're in no place to judge anyone."

    "What's that supposed to mean?"

    "You know what I mean." The crab almost cut her deep in the palm.

    "Well, if I did, Marilyn, I wouldn't be askin'."

    "Scott Clark." She turned the heat down on the stove, making sure it was coming down to a simmer.

    Frank turned off the television and stormed right into the kitchen. Marilyn was caught between the stove and her husband's angry snarl. "You listen to me. You never bring up that son of a bitch's name in this house ever again. You don't know what went on. You don't know nothing."

    <font color="#000002" size="1">[ February 18, 2006 02:33 PM: Message edited by: fishhook grief (i'll catch you) ]</font>

  2. #12
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    [ year two thousand and one ]

    It consumed everyone like a brush fire, voices rising from the crackles and pops, and spread wild until it tore everyone apart. The Funeral. A breaking point -- the crack of the thermometer, mercury splatter, fever induced craze that sent the entire family to church, to bawl, to secretly point fingers at God, to chant how that bastard deserves to get the death penalty. Their family would march right into motherfuckin' Marin County, snarl from the gates of San Quentin on that day of execution (if that day ever comes), and cheer scream sing their little hearts out. They'd watch his head lull to the side after that fifth injection through the glass window, and they'd think "Thank God there is one less asshole strumming the streets, one less predator to prey on our daughters."

    Shane Cabriales. Class of 98, son of Peter Cabriales and Susan Mandelstam, high school sweetheart of Anna Priesely. He was there that day, walking with Anna back to their apartment (to hell if mother knew what was really going on in that place on second street) from the University. His recollection of what happened is the heart of the police report. He was the only witness, and a poor one at that. He was held at gunpoint, threatened and even though he complied, he was hit in the back of the head with the laughing metal. Anna wasn't so lucky. The autopsy revealed that she was raped, strangled to unconsciousness (most likely when she fought back; the defensive wounds told their story); ultimately it was the 9 mm lodged in her frontal lobe that did her in. Shane was taken to the hospital first, Anna was found in a dumpster behind a local Italian eatery two days later. The semen collected by a Dr. Griffin had a positive match with Alesandre Mendez. This was his third offense, following the charges of assault and possession of an illegal substance.

    No one was strong enough to take this back. Anna was gone. Frank had secretly wished that it had been Killian instead as he looked down at the lifeless perch of her mouth (the funeral was a deafening blur of sobs); no one loved Killian like they loved Anna.

  3. #13
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    a mistake you'll never forgive: killian priesely.
    [ friday night risotto : part II ]

    "Get out of my kitchen, Frank. Get out!" Marilyn defensively (awkwardly) held her forearm up.

    "What you think I'm going to do?" He grinned, taking a couple steps backward. He was furious. "You think I'm gonna hit you, woman?"

    "It wouldn't be the first time." She carefully said, still pressed against the stove. She wouldn't be making any quick or sudden movements.

    He smirked, yanking open the fridge to pull out a Bud. The snap and release of aluminum and carbonation. He gulped down half the can, eyes fixed on her for a long hard moment before he went back to sit on the couch.

    Marilyn sighed in her hands, panicked to stir the sizzling contents in the pot. She began to think about the time that Frank and her had an argument about his drinking. The memory was fuzzy somewhere between her falling back into the table, dishes crashing, silverware clattering in a startling song. I fucking raise your children, pay the fucking bills. You have no place woman to -- Killian was screaming from the doorway. She was six, her eyes so glossy with tears it was hard to believe that she could even see. She mouthed something, or maybe she didn't mouth it at all. Marilyn could only hear Frank shouting, Frank cussing, Frank raising his hand up threateningly before following through with the quick strikes. One after the other.

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