Sins of a Father

Small-Town Girl

1

If, let us just say, God actually did put other life-forms in space, many wonder what they would think if they were to come to our small little neck of the galaxy. With over six billion people, they wouldn’t need to fly around for long to find someone to spy on. Just pull up a map, close their eye/s and put their finger on the map. Unless they hit water or one of the two poles, they will find people there. Let us say their finger landed on the South-Western United States of America. The pull up a large map of the area and do it again, this time landing on a small valley somewhere in Southern California between Los Angeles and San Diego. They pull up a large map of the place, the Coachella Valley according to the map, and place their finger on section of homes in the city of Indio. Pull up a larger map of that area, somewhere near 48 and Madison according to the street-map, and they decide on one house. They fly their ship down to that house (cloaked, of course…alien’s aren’t supposed to be stupid, remember) and look into a window to find twenty-year old Michelle Elizabeth Adams typing away at a laptop. Deciding to study human behavior for a year or so, they mark her as someone to follow and observe.

For her part, Michelle Adams was your average, everyday small-town girl. She wasn’t a rich snob, not by a long shot, and didn’t flaunt her looks because she didn’t believe she had any looks to flaunt. She knew the kind of girls who walked around the local community college campus. They were either rich girls whose parents were forcing to work their way up from the bottom unless they screwed up or women who she thought were beautiful.

Her parents, while never hurting for money for the majority of her life, were not rich by a long shot. With the way the economy had taken a downfall during Bush’s last year in office due to Clinton’s mistake during his last year in office, they were teetering on the edge of lower-middle-class and poor. Despite having an Associates of Arts degree in English, she was still at College of the Desert, the local community college, working on a minor in Theatre to pass the time. She was upset by it, having had to turn down ten college acceptance letters due to the economy. Her parents told her to reply back and tell them that, and maybe they’d understand. So she did just that.

She never heard back from them.

She closed the paper she was writing, figuring she’d finish it later on during the night. She was an English major, she could bull-shit a paper if she needed to. Especially when the topic was something that she was into, such as how accurate the movie Carrie was to the book by Stephen King. At times, she felt she could relate to the plain-looking telekinetic girl in King’s first novel. To this day, she would often swear that King must have had his wife help write most of the novel for him, something her sister’s boyfriend would often agree with as a fellow English major and aspiring author. Of all the books she had ever read, Carrie was the only one she always read and read again, every time her heart going out to the young girl King brought to life to go to her senior prom. Every time she felt just a little bit more like her.

It never helped when just about every girl (and most of the men) she knew as well would call her Carrie White.

Every day in the classes she attended at the community college, someone would always call her Carrie White. It happened so often that she was actually unnerved the day it didn’t happen. She didn’t know why until she got home, only to find out her and her sister’s boyfriends were in jail for nearly killing the reserve quarterback on the college football team for saying he would like to “screw and kill that Carrie White bitch.” The courts decided that it was a real threat the quarterback had made, and let their respective boyfriends out of jail.
People stopped calling her Carrie White for the last few weeks of the semester after that.

Only a few people would actually dare call her Carrie and it not be in a cruel joking manner. Her sister’s boyfriend would often call her Carrie whenever something was not going her way. She would usually respond with hitting him in the head, hard. Both her sister and best friend would occasionally call her Carrie to get her attention when she wasn’t all there to look at something that she just had to see. And, much to her annoyance, her boyfriend would usually call her Carrie whenever she was in the middle of her period.

At least he never chanted “Plug it up! Plug it up! Plug it up!” like the girls did in the beginning of King's novel, though she truly suspected that there was a reason he never did. Probably afraid she'd go and permanently plug it up if he did chant it.

Her boyfriend was something that often caused her to pause and think upon the fact that she actually had one. She really had no idea why he was with her. He could probably have any girl he wanted to have, seeing as he had the money to support even the most insane of the needy and high-maintenance girls with their faker-than-life DD-cup breast and size zero waist leading towards large hips and legs that never ended. Of course, she knew that was why he was with her. They would see him as the up-and-coming artist, the twenty-first century’s Salvador Dali, the now regionally famous Jonathan Dominic Matthews. She saw him as John (or Johnny), the guy with long messy hair pulled back into a ponytail, a nice smile, and a death wish if he continued to call her Carrie while she was on the rag.

She got up off of her bed and walked towards her door, locking it, before she stripped out of her clothing. She would more often than not spend the day wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and a lose tank top whenever she was home, simply because it made it easy to relax. Of course, whenever she left, she would always change cloths. And since John would be there to get her soon, she figured she should start getting ready. As she started to set about gathering her clothes she would wear on her date to San Diego, she stopped and looked in the mirror on her door., looking at her reflection in distaste.

She knew that John hated it when she would judge herself in a mirror. Hated it when she would put herself down based on something as pointless as looks. He told her she was beautiful, and so long as they were together, his opinion was the only one that mattered. She knew he was right, but also knew that he was looking at her through a small little filter called love. She knew that she could be uglier then shit, and he would still say that he thought she looked beautiful. But she knew. She was a women. She could see her flaws, just as she could see true beauty.

She ran her hand through her hair, never able to grow longer then shoulder length without getting bad split ends before falling out altogether. Worse, it was a plain color, brown. Just plain brown. She couldn’t even call it brunette, it was such a plain brown in color. The same could be said for the rest of the hair on her body. Her eyebrows were large and not really feminine, and seemed to be bushy at times. Her pubic hair, at least, was neat and always kept trimmed into something she had once heard it described as a “landing strip” in a porn magazine she found discarded in the campus parking-lot.

She cupped her breast, ashamed to have to own them in their current state. They were just barely small B-cups and the areolas were large and dark with gumdrop sized nipples capping both of them. Because of the size, they were extremely sensitive, and she hated it. In her mind, they were too small to be considered beautiful. Too small to be considered anything but ugly. Oh, she had once loved them when growing up. They started to develop long before her friends’ breast would, only to stop while theirs continued to grow larger.

She ran her hands down her flat stomach and her waist line, letting them fall to the side at her hips. While not large, they were decent. Granted, to her, they were a flaw. They were not what beauty was. They were the opposite of beauty. The things that supermodels had nightmares about. The things she dreamed of changing.

All of her body.

The things she would change.

Things she would change if she really was Carrie White.

“To bad I’m not.” her soft voice rang out, a whisper even in the quiet room, only the sounds of her moving about getting ready for her date being heard. It was how she liked it. Quiet.

2

Jonathan Matthews was never someone who you wanted to cross. While he might seem like the “artsy-fartsy” type upon first meeting, he was still someone who could and would kick your ass if you needed it. Ask the reserve quarterback at the college, he’d tell you. John was the one who snapped his arm like it was nothing more than a twig, something that every opposing lineman could never do.

Standing at just over six feet tall with a lean muscular build, messy sandy-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail with deep blue eyes, he was a favorite among the ladies. Add to that the fact that he was actually rich and getting richer in the screwed-up mess called the US Economy and he just became that much more popular. It was for this reason that he first became attracted to Michelle Adams.

He knew that people often wondered about him. Rich up-and-coming artist, owner of a Mustang, can have any women he wants, yet is dating the “Carrie White” of the local campus, the plain-looking Michelle Adams. This often led to many pointless questions regarding both his and her sexual orientation and preferences. They wanted to know just why he was dating her. And they never cared for his answer.

His answer was simple. He loved her. Not just her personality and personal moral code, but her looks as well. There was always something he loved about her looks, something about it that seemed natural and real. For the three main points that she would always bring up and argue about, he also always had a counter for them. He knew she hated that he always had one for them as well.

“My hair is to damn short.” she would say. While he always said it wasn’t, he personally preferred long hair. Yet, after a year of dating, it seemed to suit her and he grew used to it. He could not picture her with long hair.

“My breast are too damn small.” she would then say. Personally, he always preferred small breast. It was just the way he was. And from the times he’d seen her around the house when she would just be in a tank top with no bra, the look of her her nipples made his mouth water at the thought of sucking them into his mouth. Not that he would ever tell her unless she asked him dead on with threat of the removal of certain body parts that he might need later on in life.

“Well my waist is to thick and my hips to small.” she would finish, usually upset that he had counter. He usually wouldn’t say a thing and just step forward, run his hands down her side to her hips and squeeze them, give her a sly smile, say he saw nothing wrong with them, and then kiss her to make her shut up.

And she usually did.

He pulled his Mustang up to her house and sighed, seeing Don’s car in the driveway.

Donald Marcus Stevenson had been a friend of his since they had met in kindergarten, when they were both short, skinny and had short hair. From that time on, they did everything together or at relatively the same time. If one got in the trouble, odds were very good the other was in trouble as well. When Don first kissed a girl in the fifth grade behind the mobile classrooms, John was on the other side of the large schoolyard kissing a girl. When John first went on a date in the tenth grade, Don had gone on one the following night. They both got their Learners Permits at the same time when they were fifteen and a half, and John waited the two months for Don to turn sixteen before going and getting their drivers licenses at the same time. They even met Michelle and Katie Adams at the same time when they walked into Adams' Books.

He let a small smile cross his face as he remembered the day. It had been a surprisingly cool summer day when the two of them had walked into the small family-owned bookstore. Don had been working on the rewrites of his first novella and was looking for local support in selling the book. They had not had much luck and were planning on calling it all quits when they happened across the small bookstore while pulling into a local pizza place in La Quinta along Highway 111 and Washington Street. Not expecting anything better then the luck they had already received, they walked in expecting to be turned away again. Never in their wildest dreams would they expect to find the two beautiful girls behind the counter having an argument of one of the myths surround Stephen King's first book, Carrie. It was then that they met Michelle and Katie Adams, daughters of the owners. Two weeks later, the two returned to the book store and asked the two girls out. They agreed.

The first date for all four of them was a double-date to see who worked better with who. John could tell that both Don and Katie were working well together, both being fans of horror and Stephen King, not to mention both being aspiring authors (“You could be the next Stephen and Tabitha King.” Michelle had said jokingly, causing him to burst out laughing while Don and Katie had blushed brightly). He could also tell that Michelle had no idea who he was, simply for introducing himself to her as “John” and not his long-winded name that everyone knew. That was, until an older women of around sixty came over and demanded he make a sketch for her on a napkin and sign it.

After he did that (nothing more than four or five random lines signed “Jonithin F. U. Mathrews”) he had looked at Michelle and expected to see her ready to throw herself at him. Instead, she just made a comment on liking one of his paintings and then continued as if he wasn’t a rich artist. She treated him like he was just some random guy who was named “John” and nothing more.

As he later told Don after that date that night, he had found the women he would marry.

He parked the car behind Don’s Corvette and killed the engine, continuing to smile softly at the memory of that first date almost a year ago. He got out of the car and looked up to find Don walking out of the house, a can of Coca-Cola Classic in one hand and a copy of Stephen King’s Duma Key in the other. The short-haired skinny boy that he had met sixteen years prior had truly changed. While he still had short red hair, he had grown to be muscular which lead him to be on the high school football team. During orientation when he entered into College of the Desert, the coach had come up and begged him to play, but he had turned it down, much to John's own amusement. He stood a little taller then John which they both found highly amusing seeing as Don was younger then him. As he closed the door to his car, Don lifted the book in his hand in greetings. Don and his love for Stephen King novels.

Stephen and Tabitha King.

Don and Katie Stevenson.

God help us all.

“How you doing John?” he asked, raising his can of Coke at him in a mock salute. John fought down the urge to laugh at Don’s antics and love for Coca-Cola Classic (“Only dipshits and bad guys drink Pepsi!” he would say). Some things never change, and that was usually good.

Usually.

“Doing alright. Yourself, oh future Mr. Stephen King?” he asked back, getting a bark-like laugh from Don. That never failed to get a laugh from him. Just like calling Don and Katie the next Mr. and Mrs. Stephen King never failed to get a blush from then and a suggestive side-ways glance to pass between them.
Some things never do change.

“Ah, you know me. The Missus and I were considering going to the movies, maybe get a bite afterwards.” he said in a joking and over-the-top manner. It never failed with him. That was probably the one reason they had been friends for so long, at least in John’s opinion. “What about you, Mr. Dali?”

“Just doing dinner tonight.” he said, walking up the drive. “How’s the book?”

“Oh, you’ll love it.” he said, handing him the paperback. John turned it over to find a picture of the aging Stephen King looking back up at him as he started to read the synopsis on the back, careful not to move the receipt that Don was using as a bookmark. “It’s about this guy who’s a painter, living on some island in the Florida Keys. That's all I'm gonna tell you though.” he said with a smile. “Book screams you, man. You have to read it.”

“Considering you’ve made me read all his other works, I’m sure I will.” he replied, handing the book back to him with a smile while rolling his eyes in mock annoyance.

“Come on, it’s not like they’re bad.”

“True.” John said, walking into the modest two-story house.

“Hi John!” Michelle's younger sister Katie yelled as he walked into the house. Katie Adams was, in some ways, the exact opposite of her older sister. Whereas Michelle had short hair, modest-sized breast, and a slender figure, Katie was the text-book definition of beauty. With long blond hair, a true hourglass figure, and easily a wearing a bra size that had to be a D, it was hard for people to not stare at her when she was in a room. John, however, was always able to resist her playful flirting. The fact that both Don and Michelle would skin him alive he if actually did do something with her also played heavily in his mind when he let it wander. She quickly ran over to give him a small hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Damn it Katie, you’re not supposed to clue in Don about the two of us and Michelle!” he yelled softly, getting Katie to giggle and Don to roll his eyes. It was common byplay that they always did, either Katie and himself against Don or Don and Michelle against himself.

“Oh, shit, that’s right!” she yelled softly as well, straightening up. “Hello John.” she said in a business-like voice, sticking out her hand.

“Hello Katie.” he replied in an equally business-like voice, taking it and shaking it.

“Har dee har har.” Don said, looking between them. They stood there for a moment before all three laughed.

“I’ll go and get Michelle.” Katie said, heading up the stairs, still laughing.

“You know…one of these days we’re gonna wind up doing that in public, and people are going to question our sanity.” Don said, looking over at John.

“Nah, they already question yours.” he replied back with a smug grin, ducking as Don swung Duma Key at him.

Some things never change…

…the small things, at least.

3

She looked at herself in the mirror again, this time fully clothed. She wore a padded bra underneath her Red Hot Chili Peppers shirt, making her small breast look more like a modest sized C-cup. The shirt ended before reaching her jeans and showed a bit of her midriff, the only part of her she truly figured she could live with. The jeans were bought to try and enhance her meager hips. All the clothes were made to try and make the unbeautiful look beautiful.

“They do crap.” she said simply, her voice soft.

“Oh Carrie!” she heard her sister yell, knocking on the door. “Tommy’s here to take you to the prom! Please be a dear and don’t blow up half the town!” she finished with a laugh.

“Go fuck yourself, Katie.” Michelle said, opening the door to find her younger sister’s smiling face at her joke of always calling John the character “Tommy” from Carrie. Her sister who was beautiful, more-so then she was. She would give anything for her sister’s looks and body, regardless of how wrong or taboo the method would end up being.

“No, that’s what Don’s for.” she replied with a far-off look in her eyes.

“So long as you never repeat that in front of mom or dad, I don’t care what you two do.” she said, grabbing her jacket before walking down the stairs to find John and Don talking about something, most likely Stephen King's book Duma Key.

“Mmm…but you have no idea how good he is with his tongue and the nice co-”

“I don’t want to know about your sex-life Katie, alright.” Michelle said, rounding on her, bringing a quick halt to whatever pointless conversation the other two were having.

“Don can actually have sex?” John asked in mock shock, causing Michelle to sigh and her lower her head, shaking it in frustration and a bit of annoyance. She knew this would bring up a long-winded joke. Long-winded because she knew it would never end. At least not anytime between the time they left the house to the time she died. “I didn’t know that was possible.”

“Why yes, old chap.” Don said in a snob voice, looking at him. “You see, you take Tab C,” he said, pointing down at his crotch with raised eyebrows, “and slide it right into Slot P, Slot M, or Slot A.” he finished, pointing at Katie, a smug grin starting to spread on his face.

“And if you talk like that again, then the next time you have me put Tab C into Slot M, I might be liable to use something called teeth.” Katie said in a sickly sweet voice, causing Don to flinch and John to nonchalantly cover his crotch with his hands while wincing slightly.

“Yes, Dear.” Don said in an almost perfectly practiced voice and air.

“Well, as amusing as it is to watch a pussy-wiped Don, we need to go.” John said, taking Michelle’s hand in his.

“Are you sure, it’s quite amusing what I can get him to do.” Katie said, looking down at Don. “Isn’t it, Don?”

“Yes, Dear.” he replied, again in that long-practiced voice and air.

“No, we really must be going.” John said, again, pulling Michelle towards the door.

“Alright, perhaps next time.” she said, smiling. “Bye Carrie, please be good.”

“I hate you, Little Sis.” she replied back, smiling as well.

“Right back at you, Big Sis.” she said before looking up at John. “Do take care of her.”

“You know I will.” he said, walking out the door with Michelle in tow.

4

He looked around the playground, his eyes wondering towards the people milling about. The one upside about living in the desert was that people always seemed to be out, even in the middle of December, with their children. It never failed, and for that, he was felt grateful as he took a long drink from a bottle of Pepsi.

He loved to watch people, especially people of the female variation. He didn’t like to give himself the label of a voyeur, but he felt that, no matter what he thought, that was the only way to describe himself sometimes. He fit the label well, at least. Ragged and messy hair, beady little eyes, glasses, five-o’clock shadow permanently etched on his face. He wasn’t on the FBI list of sex offenders, though. No “Meghan’s List” for him. They could never find any proof on what he had done in the past. No way, not on Jose Omar Delgado. They’d have an easier time trying to find out where in the world Osama Bin-Laden and Carmen San Diego had gone off to, taking Waldo with them just for kicks. He was too damn good.

He killed the Pepsi and looked over towards the other end of the playground, watching a young girl playing by the sandbox. She looked maybe six or seven tops, had long flowing red hair, breath-taking green eyes, and a splattering of freckles across her nose. He had watched her walk in with a women who appeared to be in her early thirties, and from the way the women looked, the little girl would be even more beautiful when she grew older.

Or rather…if she were to grow older.

Jose had chosen his prey.