Betrayal

Our latest creative writing exercise challenged us to write from the prompt from a specific perspective: A father comes home late at night with his new girlfriend, and finds his daughter sitting on the porch with a shotgun (third person). With nods to Cormac McCarthy and Justin Cronin.

It had been a long time since Bill had felt this comfortable around a woman.

Any woman.

Once, had asked Marijo to marry him on their first date. She said yes immediately and six months later they were married. That was 30 years ago.

It was a small civil ceremony. Her family offered no dowry, but no matter. Bill’s family were not ones to stand on such customs. His parents were long dead even then; only his brother, Steven, stood witness.

There followed neither reception nor honeymoon. In Bill’s family, money was not to be wasted on such frivolities. Nor were any resources. Not since The End of All Things. What water was not contaminated, what animals that had survived, what little fuel was left, had long been gathered up hoarded by looters and gangs in The Badlands.

Marijo and Bill lived beyond The Badlands. From The First Day and even after the arrival of Sarah, they denied themselves all frivolities. When all they had was each other, survival was reward enough.

There was only the ring. A simple band of silver that had belonged to Bill’s mother and to her mother before her. Now it belonged to Marijo.

But she was not to wear it outside, ever.

Thieves.

Like their marriage, the ring had survived the hardships of The Life After. When Marijo passed, Bill removed it from her dead finger as smoothly has he had placed it there three decades earlier. He vowed then and there – to himself, to Sarah – that he would never offer it to another.

And yet, now, he had done exactly the opposite. But Isabel is exactly the opposite. Opposite to Marijo in every way. Would Sarah see that, too? I will find out soon enough.

He had not mentioned Isabel to her. But now Sarah would meet her for the first time. They were walking home now. A figure on the doorstep. With each of their steps Sarah’s form came into greater focus. Soon they could see she was holding something.

Now they were face-to-face.

“Sarah,” said Bill calmly. “This is Isabel.”

Sarah did not move. The weight of 30 years of sacrifice and survival hung between them.

Sacrifice, and now betrayal.

Sarah lowered a rifle to point it squarely at Isabel’s face. “Pleased to meet you,” she said with eyes hard and dark as stone. “But you’re wearing her ring.”

Christopher Windus