"Daddy's Good, Little Girl" Bang. Scream. A man standing over a woman's body on the floor, holding a smoking gun in one hand and
a bottle that read "VODKA" in the other. "No!" I yelled. Sitting up in bed, I realized it was the middle of the night and the murder was just a horrible dream. "Are you okay dear? Are you hurt?" Grandma panted as she came into my room, followed by Grandpa with a
first-aid kit and his old baseball bat ready to clobber anyone who came near his good, little girl. Since I thought it was just a nightmare, I assured them that I was fine, saying that I had a bad dream, nothing to
worry about. I was afraid that they would press on about the subject like they usually do when I get a paper cut
or splinter. Fortunately at 2 o'clock in the morning, they had only enough energy to sigh with relief, hug me, and
slowly return to their room. When their bedroom door creaked shut, I tried to go back to sleep but I shifted in
bed for the rest of the evening unable to shrug the dream away. Who were those people? Why did I dream of
such a terrible event? The nightmare continued to torment me for the rest of the week. By Sunday, I had become too afraid to sleep and
realized I had to bring my various questions to the breakfast table. I could hear Grandma shuffling in the kitchen making her usual Sunday morning hotcakes with bacon strips meal
and Grandpa flipping through the newspaper as I walked down the hall. When I quietly sat down after they
greeted me, they knew something was wrong. I began my story after Grandma turned off the stove and sat next
to Grandpa who had folded the paper on the table. My grandparents looked uneasily at each other after I described my peculiar nightmare. "What?" I inquired. "Why am I having these dreams?" Grandpa put his hand over Grandma's and she closed
her eyes. "You were traumatized. Only 5 years old and something like that shocked you-everyone." "What was so awful, Grandma?" She squeezed Grandpa's hand and resumed her storytelling. "One night, when you were very little, your father killed your mother." I heard her words, but my heart rejected
them. It made sense though-the man, my father, must have been drinking and shot my mother, the woman lying
dead on the floor. Still, among the few memories I had of my parents, my father as an alcoholic, hurtful man
was not one of them. "No!" I yelled, thrusting my fist at the table. "Dad never hurt my mother! They died in an car accident-that's what
you told me!" Grandma stayed in her chair, looking at the ceiling with her tear-filled eyes, while Grandpa came
and put his hand gently on my shoulder. "Honey, you were so young. The authorities brought you, telling us only the bare facts. We were your only family
left, and to tell you that Greg, your father, was in prison for murdering your mother was too-you were just too
young to bear that kind of pain, too young to understand." I wrapped my arms around his neck and began to
cry. Grandma joined us, and we all wept over the truth that had been now revealed. The frequency of the nightmares declined over a couple of weeks, and I grew closer to my grandparents than
ever. We were bundled under a quilt cuddling by the crackling fireplace and watching the six o'clock news,
when the unthinkable occurred. The execution of my father and three other criminals was scheduled for next
week. Grandma gasped and Grandpa quickly shut off the television. "We have to do something!" I blurted, jumping to my feet while my emotions flared like the fire's flames. "Now that
I know my dad's alive, I need to- " Grandpa said I needed some sleep, but I felt frustrated and refused to leave. "Go on to bed, dear," Grandma urged in a soft, sad voice. I sighed, held back tears, and reluctantly retired to bed.
Sobs permeated my closed door and Grandpa talked in a reassuring voice. I drifted to sleep as I listened to
their muffled sounds. Gasp! A man jerked me awake when he put his gloved hand over my mouth and forced me out of bed to the window.
I may have gotten away if my head did not hit the side of my nightstand. When I regained consciousness, I
found myself curled up on an old bed in a dark, unfamiliar room. Then I immediately noticed a man slumped in
a chair against the door and a gun lying on the table next to him. Realizing he was my kidnapper, I gasped, but
he was fortunately asleep and did not hear me. Trying to escape through a window, I discovered we were in
an abandoned hotel several stories up. I glanced around the room, fearful that the man would wake up any
second and shoot me with his gun-his gun! I approached the table and grabbed the gun so quickly that it
dropped noisily on the wood floor. The man jumped from his chair and I swiftly seized my weapon before he
could bend down to it. I stepped back towards the window and pointed the gun at him. "Stay away from me," I warned, shaking as I held the handgun. "Take it easy, Jen. You don't want to hurt anybody. Never have," the man coaxed. "What are you talking about? How do you know me?" I demanded. My opponent emerged from the shadows
and I instantly recognized his face. "Dad!" I exclaimed. "No, stay back, you murderer!" "Jen, no. You have to believe me-When your grandfather called me after hearing of the execution, he couldn't say
much, but he told me you knew about your mom. I gave up everything for you, because I loved you. I still love
you; that's why I broke out-got some of my buddies to distract the guards around an exit and then ran as fast as
I could with a gun that was stashed in a hole under my mattress. I escaped to prevent you from telling the
police that you were the true killer." "What???" "As an officer always working nights, I never knew about your mom's drinking, or beatings, till that night I came
home early. As soon as I hung my belt, I heard shots in the house. I found your mother's body on our bedroom
floor. She had finished off an entire bottle of vodka and it looked like you had been hurt pretty bad. You were
rocking in a corner, shaking, and still had the gun in your hand. You were my baby, my good little girl, while
your mom was someone whom no one suspected of alcoholism. Since I had been known to drink a little with
the boys, and I had just been at the bar celebrating a slow night, I took the blame." "Liar!" I screamed. "It makes no sense!" He advanced towards me, attempting to calm me down, but I was
confused, angry, and scared. I pulled the trigger. Bang. My father fell, blood spurting from his chest. Memories rushed back into my head. I was playing in my room when Mother stumbled in with her drink. She yelled bad things and struck my face so
hard I hit the wall. She kicked and punched me all over saying I was a burden, wasting time and money, that I
was a mistake. I pushed her away, crying, and ran to the dresser in her room, where Daddy hid his gun for
emergencies. Mother entered the room and as she lifted her bottle to hit me, I raised the heavy gun wrapped
in a handkerchief and shot her. Filled with as much rage as a 5-year-old could hold, I shot her again for the all
beatings I received and all the lies she told my father to conceal her behavior. Then Daddy came, realized
what I had done, and took the vodka from Mother's limp hand. He repeated, "You're a good little girl," to soothe me
until I surrendered the gun, then he stood over Mother's body awaiting the police. The sound of sirens approaching and the smoking gun in my hand was all too familiar. "Daddy!" I bawled as I dropped my weapon and ran towards him. I lay with him on his chest and felt my tears mix
with his warm blood. "I'm so sorry, honey," Greg whispered, "Grandpa said you wanted to help me, and I thought you would tell the
authorities the truth, so I kidnapped you. I couldn't let you suffer in jail." "No, it's all my fault. I'm so sorry, Daddy." I cried. "I love you." He reached out to my cheek, his mouth opening to
reply, but his hand fell and his heart stopped. I gasped and moved against the wall with my father, stroking his
head in my lap. The sirens came closer and closer as I rocked harder and harder, softly sobbing,
"I'm a good, little girl. I'm a good, little girl..."
No copying allowed. All places and characters in this story are purely fictional. Any relation to them is purely coincidental. Isn't this a purely annoying statement?