Legal Murder

chapter:16

She flicked on the lamp and sat back into the wooden chair that was older than her by many decades. The oak desk stood beneath a stack of lined paper, an old typewriter, and a thick layer of dust. The desk had belonged to her mother. Her mother had been a writer.

Dixie stared out of her attic window, over the sheet of yellow-stained paper jammed into the typewriter, and watched dark, angry clouds cover up the sky. She thought she saw a shooting star, but the flash of red told her it was just a helicopter. Darkness had fallen over the sleepy neighborhood as midnight fast approached.

Yet, Dixie's blue eyes were wide and awake. Her heart was filled with the craving to do something great.

"If only I knew how to work a typewriter..." She muttered to herself, focusing away from the snowflake-splattered window and down to the desk. A few jiggles to the jammed keys later, Dixie had typed the first words that had come into her mind, "People who are okay with abortion say they are for giving women the right to choose. I strongly believe in choice. Women should have as much choice as men- but even men get thrown in prison if they kill someone."

The Coke Dixie had brought upstairs with her was long forgotten as she set about writing what would soon make the headlines of national television. It hadn't been her intention to change the world. No, that was Mr. Ellis. He was the one who had had the faith that Dixie could make a difference. She had only hoped of one or two supporters. In fact, Dixie was growing afraid of what America would say to her when she spoke up about what she felt so passionately about. Her mind drifted back to before that one fateful day in the fall when her dad had dropped her off late to school. Being late was a scary thing, but it was something that could be worked on, worked through, and triumphed over when the day came for celebration.

"Dixie!"

Her frozen fingers slipped from the "E"  key, and she took in a slight breath. Her eyes narrowed at the word she hadn't gotten to finish typing. "Yes, Dad?"

Mr. Simmon's heavy footsteps traveled up the attic stairs at a slow, unsteady pace. She listened to her dad's steps as he took them, and felt, for a brief moment, that she could hear his heart as it beat.

His head appeared in the small, arched doorway. There was a tentative, almost pained smile on his lips. "Sweat-heart." Was all he said at first.

"I just thought I'd get some writing done," Dixie explained, feeling rather defensive, "It's been a long day, and I was inspired is all."

He waved his left hand by way of saying "no harm done". He took in a sharp breath and didn't say anything.

"This isn't like any story I've written, Dad." She added, watching his back tilt forward slightly, "This isn't one of my infamous girl-opens-cupcake-shop-and-finds-the-true-meaning-of-friendship stories. This is for real. Maybe even my best. Because the real stuff is what makes us us, you know? If all anyone ever read were cheesy fiction novels, we'd all become a bunch of cheesy fiction characters. Real stories bring out the best in everyone, because everyone can relate to real stories."

Mr. Simmons looked at his daughter with an expression of pride. "You're so much like your mother."

"I am?" She liked the idea of that.

"Yeah. I remember when she would come up here, sit down at her desk, just the way you are now, and she'd stay here for hours. Sometimes her hours would morph into days. I remember her telling me how she loved watching the sunset, and writing until she saw the sun rise again from the other side of the world. It made her feel small, but it also made her feel important. Like, like she could do anything if she wanted to. As long as the sun still shined every morning, she had the chance to do great things." His voice dropped. He glanced up at the leaking, wooden beamed ceiling to stop tears from traveling down his worn cheeks.