Montana 1948 fanfiction

The oak stairs creaked as my bare feet stepped downwards. My brother, Wes skulked behind me, hunching over like a man fifty years his senior. My brother's stature aggravating the deformity of his once injured knee.

My brother's once passionate eyes were dull and lifeless, sunken, and lacking the sparkle which I'd come to expect from him. It looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. You could cut the tension with a knife, each of us considering the consequences which this day could have for the both of us.

Wesley was the first to break the silence, he managed to sputter "I wish you didn't do this, Frank. "I remained silent. Never before had I been stunned into silence like this, never considered the implications of my "heinous'' actions.

Before my eyes could process the (quite frankly) bleak scene which lay before them, I found the basement door slamming with a clunk that reverberated like an earthquake, sealing me into a fate worse than death.

I scoured my surroundings. Eyes reluctant to pick anything out due to the harsh contrast of this dank and musty cellar to the stairwell. A forgotten candle lit the room, it's faint wisps of light projecting menacing shadows.

From the illumination, I could gather my prison was as cramped as a doctor's waiting room, untreated brick walls and crumbling plaster threatening to cave in at a moment's notice. Glass jars adorned the walls, with countless organs and organisms casting their spectral glare my way, allowing the room to possess a vaguely sinister energy.

Put simply, I was petrified. Petrified of the consequences I would face in the coming days. Petrified of the crippling nosedive my reputation would take.

A faint slam could be heard from upstairs. I shot up from my sitting position, barrelling into a table, scattering its contents across the floor in shards of broken glass. The commotion upstairs halted. I approached, and it became increasingly certain that I could make out faint voices.

Among the deafening white noise, I could make out fragments of a heated conversation between my brother and his wife, Gail. 'He's in the basement. Goddamn it! I've arrested him!' My younger brother bellowed intensely 'Frank's in the basement?' escaped Gail's mouth. I had always known Gail as a strong woman; a survivor even! I knew having Davy was hard on her-both body and mind- but this resilience was nowhere to be found today.

Wes cleared his throat, a gurgle escaping his taught lips, similar to a dog preparing to pounce on unsuspecting prey. In a monotone, nonchalant tone Wes muttered "Frank said he'd come with me without a fuss. He didn't want to go to prison, and I said I'd respect his wishes, hell, he's acting like this whole thing is some sort of joke." No smirk ran across my lips. I felt no pleasure at my current predicament- in fact, what my own flesh and blood mistook for a casual demeanour was in fact a thinly masked attempt to hide my fear- a cowardly one at that.

The volume of the conversation lowered momentarily, forcing me to miss a segment of the conversation. Before long, a solemn 'How long?' escaped from Gail. Although I wasn't physically there, I could imagine her appearance. Imagine the black streaks of makeup encroaching down her pale and smooth face, tear droplets dripping to the ground.

In response, Wes stammered a faint 'I'm not sure.' With a shaky quality to his voice, I hadn't heard since childhood, when he was being disciplined by father.

This train of thought thrust me into the past, 30 years previously when I suffered the wrath and (lack of) mercy of father. In his glory days, pop was an imposing figure – slicked back hair retreating to the back of his oversized head, as if it (too) was afraid. His midsection all too commonly sported bruises from countless scuffles he found himself in.

Unfortunately, while he was the ideal of a western sheriff, Julian had a dark side. Daily, the task fell to me to diffuse these spells of immeasurable rage. All too often... . Put frankly, I was petrified of him. Petrified of my own father. The only way I found to lessen his overwhelming anger was to make pop proud of me.

For what seemed like forever, I toiled to the ends of the Earth in futile attempts to get my father to accept me, to be proud of me! I attempted (in vain) to model his morals, his opinions. Nothing. I entertained his obscene attempts of shock humour. Nothing. But finally, after I had concluded I would be the black sheep for the rest of my life, I stumbled upon the answer: sex. It wasn't until father caught me in the shed with that 'squaw' of an Indian girl down at the barn that I felt the emotional shift I desired deep within my soul.

After this incident, he commonly joked I was 'partial to red meat' and 'part of the family now'. He approved of these little incidents and while I knew they were morally and ethically questionable to say the least, my only care in the world was to satisfy father. This unhealthy family dynamic has led to obstacles down the road, including my current situation.

In my naïve eyes, it should've been Julian locked up here instead of me, his rotting corpse lying 6 feet under the ground, as he was the one to corrupt the mind of a previously responsible adolescent, he was the one to ruin my life!

My wandering mind was whisked back into reality when I heard Gail utter a faint.

'What are you going to tell Gloria?' Gloria-my wife- knew all about my pursuits. She knew. Everything. Even though we may look like a match made in heaven to the innocent bystander, trouble was brewing. Deep within the walls of her heart, I could hear the anguish, the pleas to stop. I couldn't. I couldn't separate my identity from what I have done.

I know the secret pressed a suffocating guilt, and for that I am truly disheartened, but there was nothing I could do. Her undeniable guilt presented itself in many ways, most notably when she and her class made Indian headbands. You could see the all-consuming guilt her eyes. This raised the question, why stay with me? To stop me from hurting more Indian women?

My internal dialogue was cut off by a now insistent and demanding Gail "She has a right to know where her husband is," And Gail was right, she did. Whether she wanted to, however, was another matter ... .

Hours passed staring at the walls, a bitter resentment building. The conversation between Gail and Wes had long since fallen silent, so I was stuck listening to the maddening tap tap tap of dripping water. From where, I didn't know. But I was extremely grateful for how it left me distracted enough to not ponder my circumstances.

A sense of urgency developed suddenly; a panic impossible to ignore. I couldn't get the voices to stop. Voices telling me that my reputation would be tarnished, my life ruined. I would put an end to this all, but I was too cowardly to even ponder such an action.

A switch flipped in my psyche. I lost it, the connection keeping my mind and body severed. My body feeling as if I was floating away, watching this unfold on a movie screen, I unconsciously reached for the first thing I could grab: the glass bottles. In a fraction of a second they were all gone, impossibly sharp shards of glass scattered across the cold, concrete floor as if an explosion had just taken place.

I crumpled to a heap on the floor, and with what shred of mental stability I had managed to retain, began to cry.