The Storm

Disclaimer: This is a story based on the song 'Dust Bowl Dance' by Mumford and Sons. I do not own this song or anything associated with it. :D

The young girl stood on the edge of her porch, looking out across the dry and arid fields that were her home. The tears that welled up in her eyes were the only source of water for miles around this place. The dust had come and claimed her home, and her Daddy, too.

No. She closed her eyes, refusing to let the tears escape from their confines. It was not the dust that had claimed her Daddy; had claimed her home, her town. It was the banks. That man, that evil, wicked man, had taken this place away from her, and it was all legal.

She held the crisp paper in her hand, still crumpled. It was a deed, taking away all her rights, the entire home she had ever owned or ever known. Now nothing belonged to her; she was completely and utterly alone, apart from her horse, who stood weakly at the edge of the field. She wondered if he, like herself, wondered when they were going to move on.

California. It would be so easy. They could join the others; they could go to that Promised Land. They could find jobs and move on and start new lives amidst green grass. Most of the town had already gone, moving already towards new lives. But there was something that held her back.

Her name was Max. She was the only child of Peter Daunton, the farmer who had passed away barely months ago. They referred to her in this town as ‘the only son’. For that was the life she led – to everyone, she was a boy, just so that she could inherit the rights to her father’s land and live a peaceful and independent life. It had been her father’s wish, and she had resolved to see it out. She wanted to make her home the best, for the fields to bear her father’s legacy – but now he was gone, and the lands were, too. Swallowed by the heart of the storm and transported away, away from her.

And so the banks had taken away what was left, too. The outer shell of a home that had once been hers – now that didn’t even belong to her anymore. They took the money back, and the land too, and told her to get out of here. No rights at all.

She clenched her fists and gazed out across the fields. A sob escaped from her throat. Was this justice?

No. No, it wasn’t – of course it wasn’t. No one was going to help her anymore. No one but herself.

She didn’t cry from sadness. She didn’t want to cry at all, but the anger and frustration had to escape from her somehow, and now she thought she knew a way.

She looked over to the corner of the porch, where her Daddy’s old rocking chair was. Leaning against the old wooden bar was his gun. Her father’s pride and joy. It glinted menacingly in the weak light that filtered through the clouds.

With a steady hand, she pulled a knife out of her pocket. This was hers, and she’s often used it while at work. Now she needed it desperately. She lifted off her shady hat and pulled out her thick ponytail, which she kept hidden down the back of her shirt. She sawed with the blade just above the band until it sliced thin air. And then she admired the tail she held in her hand with a kind of bitter nostalgia.

Her heels clunked on the wood as she stalked over to the chair. She lay the tail on the chair and took her hat off for a moment, holding it against her chest, closing her eyes. For now she knew what she had to do, to avenge her father.

The sixteen-year-old replaced her hat, grabbed a hold of the gun, and led her horse out of her fields, for what she thought would be the last time.

The doors of the bank swung open hard in the deserted town of Lucelie. Max stalked through the mostly empty hallway, ignoring the frightened calls of the guy at the counter which demanded to know what she was doing. She headed straight for the glass-fronted door that was emblazoned with the words ‘M. Carlisle, Bank Manager.’

Without bothering to knock, she kicked open the door. He was sitting at his expensive desk, surrounded by his expensive decanters and bottles of liquor, and the sight of him there while they had nothing almost eliminated any doubts she had about what she was going to do.

He looked only momentarily scared, seeing the gun held under one arm. Then he offered a smarmy, gruesome smile, an attempt at feigned politeness. “And who would y’be, lady?”

She hadn’t bothered to disguise herself any more. This man had never seen her before, so he wouldn’t recognise her. But he would in a moment. Oh, he would know who she was in these next few minutes.

She levelled her gun at his head with steady hands. The expression on his face rose from confusion to panic in a matter of moments. Her words came out as a whisper. “How can you just sit there.”

“What? You crazy or something?” He backed up in his chair, raising his hands above his head in a  pathetic gesture. As if he didn’t know what he had done.

“You took everything from us.” Her voice was still quiet, but it rose to an angry crescendo as she tried to fight the emotion welling up inside her. “You took everything from us, from the weak and the poor, and now you’re sitting there drinking your liquor and laughing! How can you love what you’ve got? How can you love who you are?”

He was crying now, and whimpering. “D-don’t you do this, sweetheart. This is an evil thing you’re doing here. They won’t forgive you for this.”

She clicked the safety catch. “An evil thing for an evil person,” she said simply. She aimed the barrel.

“Who are you?” he cried. “Who are you?”

She breathed in, breathed out. Looked through the sights. “I am the only son,” she whispered, and then she pulled the trigger.

There was a bang.

The body crumpled in his chair, and Max fell, shaking, to the floor. The gun fell out of her hands and it lay accusingly in front of her. Her head fell forward, and she thought of the life she had led – her family, the land, her horse. Her father.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she said, as she closed her eyes. She heard footsteps running behind her, shouts. They were coming for her. “I’m sorry. I tried.”

“On the account of the murder of Michael Carlisle, how does the defendant, Max Dawson, plead?”

Her words were stuck in her throat as she stood in the dock. She wondered what everyone thought of her now. It didn’t matter. “Guilty, your honour.”

“Would you care to explain your case?”

“I…” she didn’t know what to say. How to explain the terrible thing she had done. But she had got revenge. She had got revenge for her father, and now it would mean her end. Please forgive me. “I did what I had to, your honour. I… I am the only son.”