How About a Short Story With a Twist Ending?

Do you like short stories? This one runs under 3k words. It’s taken from a previous work of mine that I think you’ll enjoy. It’s about a mother whose daughter has gone missing. Once she finds her, both their lives spin out of control. And you know how much I love twist endings. This one is a real whooper!

SAY IT AIN’T SO, by Patrice Williams Marks

I never thought I had the capacity to kill a person, I mean, up close. I feared the consequences but knew there was no turning back. Whatever was going to happen would happen.

No time out.

No time for an exchange of words.

He was as good as dead.

I pulled over to the side of the road and parked my car. Could this be the place? I knew it was a long shot, but didn’t care. My heart was pounding out of my chest, my hands shook.

I was in a neighborhood that was so unfamiliar. It was King Harbor, a suburb known for as many Starbucks as there were yoga studios.

I had no idea what brought me to this neighborhood, to park behind the Jaguar, or to search for her daughter, Monique here. But something deep inside, a sharp puncture-like throb that grew in strength the closer I approached that neighborhood. It crescendoed on that very picturesque street. This had to be it.

I stepped outside. It even smelled different in King Harbor. I surveyed my surroundings before making my way to a home under construction.

Monique was missing.

It had only been three hours since I expected Monique home, but I knew something was off and I always listened to my sixth sense when it spoke to me. I never second-guessed it… ever.

Mo was in danger.

After spending the last two hours scouring our own neighborhood, from the turnpike to Nelson’s deli to the skate park, Mo was nowhere to be found.

I called Mo’s friends, all of whom said Mo was in school all day, then headed home after swim practice. Three hours later, she was still not home when it only took fourteen-minutes at the most.

I pivoted towards the home under construction that I was drawn to for some unknown reason. I walked in the open front door. Once there, I shut my eyes allowing my six senses to tune in to any signs of life.

A whimper.

Maybe.

Nothing.

But.

Unnatural.

Breathing.

Breathing?

I take the stairs up, two at a time. There, in the corner of the landing was a dark duffle bag. I recognized it immediately as belonging to Monique. I yanked Mo’s still-damp swimsuit out of the duffle. With my hands trembling and dread taking over I raced from room to room, afraid of what I might discover but determined to find my daughter.

I reached the end of the hallway and grabbed the battered ceramic doorknob, turned it clockwise, and entered the room.

Upon entering the room, I dropped the duffle holding Mo’s swimsuit and sprinted towards a narrow, vulnerable figure crumbled up in a darkened corner.

Mo!

My legs buckled underneath me as my knees hit the floor. I cupped Mo’s battered face between both palms. I leaned in to listen for a breath; putting her head on my chest. Mo wheezed a high-pitched whistling sonance.

Mo struggled to open her eyes. Blood and other optical fluids had collected in the space surrounding the right eye which left it swollen shut.

With trembling hands, I loosened and removed Mo’s scarf that had been twisted around her neck in an attempt to strangle her. I tossed the scarf to the side before gently laying Mo’s head back down.

Mo’s clothing which had been torn off of her, had been folded up and placed on the floor a few feet away.

I reached for my phone to dial 911. The signal, however, was not strong enough in that part of the house.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket, jumped up grabbed Mo’s duffle bag, and slung it over my shoulder, leaving her folded clothes inside the room. With a strength I didn’t know I had, I hoisted Mo up into my arms.

Before I knew it I was back at our car. I laid Mo across the back seat before securing her with a seatbelt.

My Mo slouched up against an overly-stuffed pillow in her hospital bed. She flipped away the blanket from her feet and stared at her toes. Her feet were the only part of her body that didn’t remind her of the kidnapping and assault. By simply just staring at them, she could pretend that everything was normal. But she was not normal.

Her numbness paralyzed her. Her body was not her own and belonged to technicians, the police, nurses, and doctors, with the necessary physical examination being another assault.

Mo did the only thing she could and lashed out at me with a primal, guttural scream that could be heard all the way down the hall. She blamed me for not coming to her rescue sooner. But more than anything, she blamed herself for not being strong enough to break away from the man who took her.

But his face was etched inside her psyche. She would never forget his face.

After the tests were completed, the staff spoke about arranging follow-up care. I had to be a pillar of strength for my daughter, yet my mind was on the man who assaulted her. I knew exactly what I would do to him.

Everyone has the capacity to kill. It just takes the right set of circumstances.

Police assured us that they were doing everything they could to find the perpetrator. But exactly what was everything they could? How much of a priority was it to find the man who assaulted a black girl? It had not been a priority for the precinct with victims of this type of crime in the past, so why would this be any different?

The police stated since no fingerprints were found at the scene or on the clothing their only option was to hope for leads to be called in. They assured us that the person who assaulted Mo would make a mistake somewhere along the line, and that would be his undoing.

So, the man would not only have to assault or kill someone else but tell someone about it before they could catch him? That was lunacy.

Mo slid further down the bed and slapped her palms over both ears. She hummed while rocking back and forth. Her muscles tensed as her hands curled around her ears. Her stomach churned while she trembled uncontrollably.

She began to remember what happened to her. While leaving school for the day, she saw a friendly-looking older man with silver hair who had pulled over to the shoulder waving a map in his hand. He was trying to get her attention. His glasses were lopsided and he looked as if he was in distress.

Mo felt sorry for the man who was clearly stuck in the 1980s with his accordion-folded map instead of a smartphone.

Mo removed her earbuds and approached the vehicle, making sure to keep a safe distance between herself and the stranger.

He explained that he was looking to pick up his granddaughter from practice at Harry’s Pizza, a few blocks from the school, but had gotten turned around. He asked her where the school was or if she heard of Harry’s Pizza. Mo gestured up the street. The man scratched his head and thanked her. He then unfolded the map and studied it. Mo continued on her way home while glancing back at the grandpa who was totally lost. She walked back to his car and offered to plug in the address of Harry’s Pizza into Google Maps on her phone. The man was more than appreciative. He told her that he only had a flip phone with no internet connection.

While Mo was plugging in the address, he inquired into whether she was on the swim team at school. Mo asked him how he knew and the man said because her hair was wet and she looked like she had just been swimming. He also commented on her fitness, as he put it. Mo felt a small twinge in her stomach from that last comment he made but brushed it off.

Google Maps located Harry’s Pizza and all she had to do was show the route to the man on her cell. Mo’s eyes would gaze up as she held the phone close to the man’s face for him to memorize the route. But instead of seeing relief across his face, he brandished a pistol which was pointed directly at her.

His grip was white-knuckle-tight as if he wanted to make a point.

Her heart sank and her body froze. Mo felt as if her feet were in cement keeping her from running.

Why can’t she run or scream?

The man removed his glasses and tossed the map over his shoulder, with his charm erased in an instant, he had unmasked himself.

Don’t move and you won’t get hurt, he promised. With his free hand, the man pulled a zip tie from between his seat.

Put your wrist together, he demanded.

Mo was willing her legs and feet to come back to life when he pointed the pistol at her head and wrapped a zip tie around her wrists, pulling it tight.

He used the gun and gestured for her to get in the car, but Mo refused to move.

The man grabbed her by her tied wrist and shoved in. He pushed her with his free hand, but Mo resisted. She kicked and screamed while reaching for the broken door handle on the passenger side. Mo saw an approaching vehicle and knew that was her last shot to break away free. She twisted her body so that her back was facing the man, pushed her two feet up against the door, and propelled herself backward in hopes of knocking him out of the car and kicking out the window at the same time.

Mo indeed hit the man so hard that his nose bled. She managed one more yell before everything went black. The man had used the butt of the gun to the back of her skull.

Back in the hospital, Mo suddenly didn’t recognize where she was. Her humming turned into almost a howl with her arms and legs flailing. Several nurses aids rushed in to control her.

Her doctor said she needed to be admitted as a 5150, and I reluctantly agreed.

Once back home, I struggled with what I had done to my baby. I told myself that it was for her own good and that protecting my daughter’s sanity was number one. I glanced at my watch. Nine hours and thirty-six minutes before I was able to pick her up.

Nine and a half hours later I completed the paperwork necessary for Mo’s release. I was given explicit instructions on what to look out for once she was back home. Her therapist went over the types of medications she had been given, her attitude while in the facility as well as resentment towards the world, and even me.

The therapist asked one last time whether I would allow them to hold Mo for another seventy-two hours, as they thought it would be beneficial and would allow her more time to complete her therapy. But I had promised Mo that I would pick her up that day, and I always kept my word.

I signed the last piece of paperwork and then asked that my daughter be brought in. Mo rushed into my open arms. Emotions were high, with doubts seeping inside my head. Was she really ready to leave?

Once inside the safety of our car, Mo slid away from me, inching closer to the door before placing earbuds into her ears and leaning against the window.

I made my decision and had to make peace with it.

I had planned on taking the normal route home, but there was some serious construction going on with the main artery. I decided to take another route which meant driving through King Harbor. I had hoped that it would not trigger another episode for Mo.

I allowed my mind to wander a bit as I thought about how I would find the man. After Mo was ready, I would get a better description from her and do my own investigative work, maybe even hire someone.

Suddenly Mo’s body stiffened as she yanked out her earbuds. She pointed to a grey-haired man who had parked in an alley and walked around the corner into a liquor store that was closing. The man pounded on the door, demanding to be let in. The clerk opened the door.

The silence was split by a SCREAM that had been suppressed deep down inside. It forced its way out of Mo’s mouth as if the devil had released her soul. I practically lost control of the car!

That is him! That is him!

I pulled over to the side of the road, grabbed Mo by the shoulders, and shook her violently to snap her back to reality. I matched Mo’s intensity with a ferocious shout…

Are you sure!?

Again, Mo bellowed, That is him! He did this to me!

I had to be sure. I asked one last time…

You have to be absolutely sure!

Mo, with steely eyes, nodded in the affirmative. She had no doubt.

That was the man who hurt me. I can’t get his face out of my head!

I searched Mo’s eyes for any sign of hesitancy. I saw none.

I leaned over and kissed Mo, who was back in a catatonic state.

This was it.

This was my chance, possibly my only chance to do away with the evil that had destroyed my daughter.

I popped open the trunk and got out. After rummaging through the trunk, I found what I was searching for; a tire iron. I slammed the trunk closed.

I watched as the man exited the liquor store. He opened up a pack of cigarettes. He patted his coat pockets for a match. When he couldn’t find one, he pounded on the store’s door again. But this time the clerk turned the lights off. Incensed, the man kicked the glass door to the store before walking back around the corner into the alley.

He used his key to manually unlock his car door when he felt a sharp, blunt pain across the back of his legs. He spins around to find me standing before him with both hands gripped tightly on the tire iron.

What the hell, bitch?!

I swung once again aiming for his chest. I swung with all my might with a force that could bring down a mountain. The tire iron left a gash across the man’s chest. He steadied himself against his car, reached for his wallet, and tossed it on the ground.

Take it!

I raised the tire iron above my head.

Why are you doing this? He questioned.

I lowered the tire iron for a brief moment before answering him.

You-will-never-hurt-another-young-girl-again.

I waited for the man to deny it because that’s what scum does. He may have denied it, he may not have; I don’t know because my rage took control.

This is what justice looks like.

I raised the tire iron one last time and swung it at the man’s head with a severe and deadly blow, which caused his head to snap to the left. It bobbed up and down like a deflated balloon. He crumbled to the ground, ending up in a seated position.

I leaned down and felt for a pulse. There was not one. I stood up and looked around for any cameras or witnesses. There was one camera pointing right in our direction, however, the lens was broken and it was hanging away from the building with loose wiring and no red light.

Once I reached my car, I popped open the trunk, found a plastic bag, and wrapped the tire iron inside it.

Mo had come out of her suspended state and had her earbuds back in place. I slid in behind the steering wheel. My hands shook, sweat poured down my ashen face as I turned my attention back to Mo.

When Mo was ready, I would assure her that the man who hurt her was gone for good. I was certain that the news would aid in my daughter’s recovery.

Killing a man was not as it seemed on television. It was messy and ugly. But I told myself that he deserved it and that I did what I had to do for my daughter’s sanity.

It already began to feel like a dream, however, his blood on my tire iron was a testament to reality.

But it was done and over with. I felt a sense of unimagined relief rush over me.

I pulled away from the curb.

The further away from the alley, the more comfort I felt. We were now only a few short miles from our home. As I stopped at a light, Mo sat up straight in her seat as she pointed at a young man sitting at a bus stop. He was reading a comic book.

Hysterically, and with a frenzied high-pitched wail as she pointed at the young man, Mo shouted…

That’s him!