Charity's Storm (Charity Series Book 4) (5 page)

             
My dad silenced, but I glanced up at him and noticed his jaw clenching tightly. He was very angry. But then my mom rose from the sofa to see the danger that was unfolding and screamed. My dad ran to her to quiet and comfort her, pulling her into his arms.

             
“Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay,” he whispered to her, rubbing her back reassuringly.

             
“What’s going on, Dave?” my mom asked with shock in her voice.

             
“I don’t know yet,” he whispered against her hair.

             
One man stepped forward, pulling his hood back from his head. His face was scarred on the left side, and he looked mean, his eyebrows furrowed. He spoke and his voice was stern, sending a clear warning. “Listen up. If you all cooperate there will be no reason to hurt any of you. Our car broke down in front of your house and we need your car, and we need it now.” The man stared intently at my dad.

My dad held his stern gaze as if challenging him. It was if my dad sensed something that we didn’t. “We both know you’re lying,” my dad said. “So how ‘bout this, you leave my home and my family right now and none of
you
will get hurt.”

             
I gawked at my dad and his tenacity. “Dad, just give him the keys,” I said, my voice pleading. I knew he had probably left them in his dress pants upstairs like he always did.

             
“Yes, Dave, give them the keys,” my mom begged.

             
“I know what I’m doing. These men have no intention of just letting us go.”

             
My eyes grew wide as I turned and studied the faces of the men before me. My dad was right, these guys didn’t look like the type to let us go knowing we had seen their faces, so I studied those faces even harder. If we got out of this I wanted to be able to identify them to make sure they were caught and punished. I didn’t know what they had done, or why they needed our car so badly, but by the looks of them, I figured it was something bad.

             
The man with the scarred face smirked at my dad for a moment, and then addressed the others. “Find the keys,” the scarred man ordered them. His gun was fidgeting. He was restless and getting more and more angry.

             
The others scurried from the room in search of the car keys. And once they had disappeared from sight and sound, my dad pushed my mom backwards onto the sofa and punched the scarred man square in the face. My mom’s head hit the edge of the side table, and she was instantly out cold. I covered my mouth to silence my scream.
What was my dad doing? These men were armed! I had never seen him like this before, and it scared me.

             
I ran to my mom and cradled her against me as I watched the fight in horror.

             
The two struggled, throwing punches so fast I could barely keep up. My dad hit the man in the stomach, causing him to drop his gun.

             
“Get the gun, Charity,” my dad ordered as they continued to grapple.

             
I don’t know if it was the adrenaline or pure stupidity that made me obey, but I hurried to make my way around the two men who were still locked in a struggle. As if sensing my move, the scarred man pushed my dad against me to block me from reaching the gun.

             
The next sequence of events seemed to happen in slow motion. The other two men entered the room to witness the commotion.

“Shoot them!” the scarred man ordered.

The second man hesitated for a slight moment and then raised his gun and aimed it at us. My dad pushed me, sending me flying just as a shot rang out. I looked up just in time to see the shot pierce my dad in the chest. I screamed as he clutched his chest and turned to me. Our eyes locked. His expression was laced with pain and fear. He looked at my mom who was still unconscious on the sofa and then another shot rang out, sending him collapsing to the floor.

“No!!” I screamed, jumping up and running to him. I pulled his head into my lap and cried as I begged him to open his eyes. “Dad, please answer me! Dad! Don’t leave us! Dad!!” I yelled at him, my voice laced with desperation.

              “Tie them up,” I heard the scarred man say to the others. “And find those keys!”

             
One man grabbed my arm, and when my dad’s head fell out of my lap and hit the floor with a loud thump, the anger I suddenly felt raged inside of me like a boiling furnace and spilled over. I let him pull me to my feet, and then I turned with a jerk and kneed him in the groin harder than I knew was even possible. He went down hard. Without hesitation, I grabbed the T.V. remote from the table beside me and threw it at the third guy, the one who shot my dad, hitting him square in the eye. He cried out, dropping his weapon and grabbing his eye. I suddenly remembered my mom. I spun and froze. The scarred man had my limp mom in his arms with his gun pointed against her temple.

“That was very brave of you, little girl, but stupid. Do you wanna die like your father?” the scarred man asked, his smirk growing wider by my horrified expression. This sent another bolt of rage coursing through me. I clinched my fists as hard as I could and willed myself to stay in place. I had never felt such anger and hatred for another living soul in my entire life. I wanted this man dead.

My mom stirred just as the first sirens could be heard in the distance. Relief flooded my spirit at the lovely sound as the sirens grew louder. Help was coming. The scarred man studied me, his expression growing angry. He was contemplating whether or not to kill us. I could see his mind racing with thoughts as his dark eyes roamed back and forth from me to my mom and back again. Finally, he couldn’t deny that the sirens were too close and if he wanted to escape, his time was now.

“Next time, little girl. Next time,” he warned as he pushed my mom roughly into my arms, knocking us both to the ground. I looked up to see him running from the room. The second man made it off of the floor and followed, still limping. And, after first bumping into the wall, the third man followed after them, yelling for them to wait, his hand still clutching his injured eye.

I moved my mom gently aside and hurried over to my dad. His face was pale and his shirt was soaked with blood. He was so very still, and I knew he was already gone. My body convulsed as the pain exploded through me, leaving what felt like a hole in my chest and taking my heart with it. I cuddled up beside him, burying my face in his side, and cried harder than I thought was even possible.

I could hear commotion in the front yard and knew the police had arrived and a chase had ensued. At the realization that the ordeal had come to a close, my heart throbbed in agony, and soon I knew my mom would feel it too. This brought on a new, more intense, pain than I thought I could ever experience. My dad was gone, and my perfect little life was now shattered into a million tiny pieces.

Chapter Seven

In just a matter of minutes, my world had been turned upside down. My life had forever been altered, and I was in agony.

Because of their injuries, two of the men had been caught, but the scarred man was still on the loose. I hated that man with a passion. And although he hadn’t actually pulled the trigger, he was the one I hated and blamed for my father’s death. And he would have to pay for it.

For three straight days I stayed in bed, not eating and only getting up to use the bathroom. I just cried and occasionally punched my pillow as hard as I could in anger. My dad was gone, and I just wanted to disappear. The only comfort I had was that my mom still needed me. My mind kept replaying the great day we had on my birthday, and then the movie night we had just shared. It was like a knife jabbing into my heart over and over again. Would the pain ever stop? Would I ever be the same again?

On the fourth day, I willed myself out of bed when I heard something shatter downstairs. As I descended the stairs, I heard my mom’s deep, painful sobs. I rounded the hall and spotted her in the kitchen, crumpled on the floor with pots lying all around her. Her hair was disheveled and she was in her pajamas. I ran to her and scooped her into my arms and cradled her head against my chest. It was then that my own pain was shoved down deep, suffocating the mourning, but giving birth to a powerful anger; anger at my dad for risking everything to fight our attackers, anger at God for taking him from us, and anger at myself for neglecting to retrieve the gun that would have saved us. Yes, anger had taken hold of my heart and became my new way of grieving.

Ashley stayed tight by my side at the funeral. She said nothing, just held my hand and cried along with me. And hot, angry tears fell even as I gazed around in awe at the many people who showed up. My dad was well liked and had lots of friends. It was a heartbreaking and exhausting day, and I was glad to have Ashley with me. She became my lifeline, staying with me for days, comforting me, helping me with Mom along with all the other things that needed to be done that Mom just wasn’t up to. We also stopped going to church. My dad had always been faithful about taking us, but without him we just didn’t have the desire to go.

             
At school, I stayed away from most people. Not sure I could control my anger, I kept my words to a minimum, only nodding when one of my friends talked to me. We ate lunch in silence for the first week or two. I guess my friends didn’t feel that laughing or even talking about normal things was appropriate with me hurting so badly. And though I said nothing, I was grateful for their concern.

I was walking through the hallway, heading to my fifth period class, when a familiar scent hit me. It was my dad’s scent. I would recognize the scent from his aftershave anywhere. I eagerly scanned the crowd around me, frantically searching for the scent as I followed it through the hall. It led me to an empty classroom with the words
Guidance Counselor
on the door. I was confused as I stepped inside the room, still searching for the scent’s origin. It grew stronger as I entered the center of the room. Just then a tall man, possibly in his forties, stepped out of a closet from across the room and turned.

“Oh, hello,” the man said. “May I help you?”

              Reality hit me again as the realization that this man might smell like my father, but he was not my father. My father was dead, and he wasn’t coming back.

“Umm, Miss, can I help you?” the man asked again.

I visibly trembled as my eyes filled with hot tears. I didn’t know what to say in response. “Oh, umm, no I don’t think so,” I mumbled, stepping backwards and out into the hall.

             
“Hey, wait!” the man called, but I took off down the hall and out of sight.

             
Within weeks my grades began to slip, my sarcasm was growing, and I was changing. The pain and anger were strong, and I could feel it seeping into my soul, tainting my outlook on everyone and everything around me. I had now become that girl who didn’t give a rip-roaring rapid what people thought about her—and somewhere deep inside, that realization saddened me. Also, the fact that the scarred man the police called Jason Franco was still out there somewhere was only adding to my growing anger and anxiety.

             
I even had a run-in with that girl Bunnie in the bathroom one day. It was during lunch and my friends were talking about our annual masquerade dance. I just couldn’t handle thinking about something as normal as a dance. I left the table and headed for the bathroom, passing Bunnie on my way there. Bunnie must have watched me enter the bathroom and thought she could take advantage of my vulnerable condition.
Boy was she wrong
. I was having an anxiety attack of sorts, my first of many, in one of the stalls when she entered. She immediately began laughing and taunting.

“Boy, it must be hard to lose a daddy,” Bunnie began. “I’m so glad I still have mine. I heard your daddy was asking for it too.”

I burst from my stall without thinking and slammed her body against one of the bathroom sinks, scaring her senseless. I stuck my face in hers and clenched my teeth. “If the topic of my father ever exits your mouth again, I’m gonna shove something so far in it that it will change your life forever! Do you understand?”

She swallowed and nodded slowly, her eyes wide as saucers. I guess she hadn’t expected that from the gir
l who cowed away from her stare-down weeks earlier. But that sweet and innocent girl was now gone—and she wasn’t coming back.

I backed away and slowly left the room. From that moment on, I no longer avoided her like before. I almost welcomed the idea of cleaning her clock. I knew one day she would get what was coming to her, and as fate would have it, she got caught with a bag of marijuana in her locker and had to repeat the ninth grade.
Bummer.
She denied it was hers, of course, and insisted that someone had planted it there, but it was never proven.

             
My mom took notice of my changes as well and began taking me to a therapist. I guess talking my feelings out with Dr. Ferring helped some. At least I was able to get out some of my built-up emotions for that day, but I didn’t talk much about the details of my dad’s death. I couldn’t. It was too painful to relive. So I kept the details of that horrid night to myself, not even telling Ashley, but she seemed to understand me completely. She got that I was forever changed by the events of that night, and she accepted me. My other friends seemed to catch on as well.