(figured Iโd post the second chapter since we get Anton in it.)
Title: Fatherโs Daughter
Chapter II: The Hermit (2.6k words.)
Olga remembers the first night she spent with the killer.
CW//: sexual content, sexual coercion, weapons
Read chapter one here.
Olga remembered holding the door open for him at two in the morning, just after Christmas turned into December 26th. He struck and confused her. Most guests arriving at the motel in the middle of the night were either exhausted business travelers or older men with much younger women. They all had glassy eyes, in desperate need of sleep. The man looked well-rested when he greeted her with a nod. His angular face, dark curtain of hair, and too-wide mouth created a clash in appearance that unsettled her and evoked an inkling of attraction.
However, he was the perfect example of why locking the lobby doors at night was complicated. She was required to lock the doors at ten at night โ the beginning of her shift. They lacked smart locks. Most motels along the interstate had them, but the Patels didn't have as much money as they thought they did. Instead, the door's locking mechanism consisted of two stakes that she'd have to bury in drilled holes in the tile. For good measure, Olga had purchased her own chain and padlock to wrap through the door's internal handles. This meant whenever a guest came to check in, she'd have to undo and reset it.
The process was quite frustrating and often distracted her from the menial tasks she enjoyed, such as skimming the adjustment reports and conducting cash checks, which were the reasons she preferred working overnights. It was easier than having too many interactions with others.
When she asked him if he had a reservation, he responded that he didn't in this strange accent she couldn't pinpoint. She glanced down at her clipboard, which held the rooming matrix, for brief comfort. When she looked up, she noticed that the man's eyes had an ambiguous color, staring into her with an unhurried expression, as if to say, I have all night.
He placed his large, strong hand on the counter and leaned forward, making the woodsy scent of his button-up shirt known. He told her, politely, that he did not have an ID on him, which was required for check-in. He told her to make an exception.
Told, not asked.
The man didn't mind that he'd have to pay for a whole night's stay and check out at eleven in the morning. She gave him the whole desk spiel. Coffee, tea, and pastries were available in the lobby beginning at six. There were ice machines every five rooms. The room had complimentary domestic calls, but international calls would be added to his room charges.
He handed over the cash, thanked her, and made himself comfortable in one of the chairs in the lobby.
Amid the hum of soft piano music from the radio and the dim overhead lights, the man stared straight ahead at the Pollock-esque painting on the wall, one hand across the top of the chair and the other resting on his knee. She scribbled the word "the" over and over again on a scrap sheet of paper to make it look like she was busy, but occasionally she'd steal glances at him. For twenty minutes, he did not so much as flinch.
Olga cleared her throat. "Do you need anything else?"
"I don't know."
There was an apparition of a smile on his faceโa slight upwards curve.
"Waiting for somebody?"
"Not particularly."
In her year of working the night shift, she'd been propositioned once while on the job. She wondered if this would be the second time. She mulled the possibility over in her head. Tried to, anyway. His responses were making her defensive and slightly insecure. Suddenly, the man sat up and placed both of his hands on his lap.
"Why did you choose this job?"
โExcuse me?โ
โI said, ' Why did you choose this job?โ
She thought about it. Sheโd chosen the job because of homelessness. She was exhausted from couch-surfing between the homes of random men, who let her stay there in exchange for sex. Generously, one of the men told her he knew that the motel was hiring and would pay for her room as long as she was available to help with any issues that arose.
She took a break from selling her body, moved into the motel, and still made two dollars and ten cents an hour.
Olga could have told the man all of this, but it seemed inappropriate, considering sheโd just met the man sitting in the chair.
โI donโt know.โ
โMm.โ
The man stood and approached the desk. Olga felt her shoulders tremble. The sheer size of him. He towered over her. He brought one hand up and tapped his finger on the desk.
โLet me ask you something. Do you live here?โ
Olga swallowed. โYes.โ
โYou donโt have money.โ
โSir?โ
โYou donโt have money. They let you live here, but you donโt make any money.โ
โHow do youโโ
The man leaned forward. โHereโs what I can do. Fate is on your side tonight. I decided before I got out of the car. You come with me for twenty minutes, and youโll leave with a little more than pocket change.โ
Olgaโs lower lip trembled, and her eyes widened. She took one step away from the desk. The manโs face remained unchanged, but his head tilted ever so slightly towards the lobby door.
Any attraction sheโd had towards the man faded into obscurity, leaving her with acute fear. In the past, sleeping with men for money hadnโt been a problem. As long as she thrust herself into a dissociative state, reminding herself that the act of being fucked only lasted approximately fifteen minutes, she convinced herself that the end justified the means. She found most of the men she slept with to be pathetic, even more so than she found the act of sleeping with men for money to be pathetic. Most of these men had wives. Children. Sheโd met up with them in alleyways, motels, and public bathrooms. Even so, sheโd been lucky. All of the men had been harmless.
The man with the broad shoulders standing in front of her gave her no reason to believe heโd be harmless.
โI meanโฆIโโ Olga spoke. She felt as if her mouth had been stuffed with cotton balls. โI donโt reallyโฆโ
โDo this?โ He asked. โOr do this anymore?โ
Olga tried to conjure up saliva to moisten her mouth.
โDo this anymoreโฆโ
โMy request is simple and will not take too much of your time. You come with me, you do what I say, you get paid, and I leave.โ
โReally?โ
โYou have my word.โ
She thought of her empty savings account. Her debts. How often she couldnโt imagine there being tomorrows. When she looked up, the man was standing by the door.
He was certain he knew what her answer was.
*
โOpen the door.โ
The man stood behind her as her fingers fumbled with the keys. She tried three of them before she finally engaged the lock.
Olga was well acquainted with every single room in the establishment. The low lighting of the bedside lamp. The brown duvet cover and the pillows that were always folded in the same way, thanks to the housekeepers who had been working there for practically their entire lives. This was Room 9, which she knew had a leaky faucet that maintenance hadnโt fixed yet.
The two of them stepped inside the room and locked the door behind them. The man placed the large overnight duffel he was carrying on the writing desk near the window. While he unzipped it, the sound cutting through the quiet room, he spoke to her.
โSit.โ
Olga lowered herself onto the bed, facing him. Her palms were already going to wet the duvet with perspiration. Her left foot dangled and tapped rapidly in the air. She watched as the man removed a gun from the bag.
โOh my god,โ she whispered. โOh, my god.โ
The man didnโt respond. He placed the gun with the cylindrical suppressor, gently, on the table in front of him.
โSir, Iโve changed my mind,โ she whispered. โPlease, Iโll give you the night stay for free. I wonโt tell anyone. Just let meโโ
โPlease be quiet, Ms. Lasochka.โ
She closed her mouth with a whimper. Both of her feet began to tap rapidly. She wondered how he knew her name, then realized that heโd probably looked down at the ledger she kept with her name on it while he was checking in.
She cursed herself. She should have known better. She should have gone with her gut. Should haveโ
The man placed the duffel on the floor, so all that remained on the table was the gun. He removed his denim jacket and carefully draped it over the back of one of the chairs.
โYour clothing, Ms. Lasochka.โ
โMyโโ
โYour clothing. Please.โ
As Olga stood, her fingers struggling to unbutton her collar, the man busied himself with rubbing a handkerchief over the lengthy barrel of the gun. Her fingers moved over the buttons, and about halfway down, she gave up on herself and tore the rest of the shirt open.
He still did not look at her as she unbuckled her pants and shimmied them down her legs. Her hands fumbled for the clasp of her bra, and after pulling too hard on the elastic, she was able to free herself of its confines. She caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror across from the bed. The elastic had left faint, red indentations across her ribs.
The man sighed and moved the cloth to the silver suppressor. โThe underwear can stay on.โ
โBut, sirโโ
โMs. Lasochka, you misunderstand your current situation. What you think I want isnโt what I want.โ
Before she could respond, he interrupted.
โAt least not tonight.โ
His eyes widened, and he raised his eyebrows.
Olga lowered herself onto the bed and placed her hands beside her. The man had put the gun back down on the desk. For the first time, he turned and looked at her. Unlike the hungry men who ogled her when she was nude in front of them, the manโs eyes stayed on hers. Without looking away, he produced from his pocket a quarter.
โCall it.โ
โSirโโ
โMs. Lasochka,โ he began. โI do believe Iโve been incredibly clear and straightforward this evening. Please do not test my patience.โ
โOkayโฆtails, then.โ
Olga watched as the man balanced the quarter on the tip of his thumb and flicked it. There was a glint from the pale light of the lamp before he smacked it down onto his palm, looked at the result, and nodded to himself.
โKneel on the bed and turn around. Back towards me.โ
Her fear had turned into stark disbelief. She pulled her legs up onto the bed and kneeled, settling herself on her heels. Her mousy brown hair hadnโt been cut in years. She felt the ends tickle her tailbone while the man stood behind herโso close that she could feel the heat of his hands as they came up and, gently, gathered her hair into a ponytail.
He let it go and parted it three ways. His breath was warm on the back of her neck as he began to braid it.
Right side over the middle. Left side over right. Middle over. So on and so forth.
As he braided down her back, she could tell he was beginning to get impatient. He treated her hair horribly, pulling the ends tight so it pulled against her scalp.
โOwโฆโ
โThe rubber band on your wrist, please.โ
She removed it and passed it behind her back. He tied it on the end of the braid and pushed it over her shoulder.
Olgaโs heart was skipping beats. Fluttering. Frantic. The man stepped back over to the table with the gun and coin.
โTurn around. Keep kneeling.โ
Olga shifted so she was facing the window again. The man had picked up the gun, both hands holding the underside of the barrel, and held it out to her.
โWhat are youโโ
โTake it.โ
The man took another step forward and carefully placed it in her hands, as if he were handing over a newborn.
โHold it across your chest. Diagonally. Barrel pointed upwards.โ
Olga closed her eyes and willed herself to steady her breathing. She did as she was told. The gun was heavier than it looked. The suppressor made it top-heavy, so the hand closest to it was working overtime to keep it upright. The man just stared. His eyes were not on herโthey were on the weapon. The metal was cold against her breasts, causing her to occasionally squeeze her eyes shut at the shock of it all.
She counted the two minutes that had passed. She knew it was two minutes because all she could do was count. In that time, she realized that her mood had shifted from fear to disbelief to a feeling of power. She inched her index finger along the metal and relaxed.
She did not know how to shoot. She would not know how to kill this man if she had to. But she operated under the assumption that he didnโt have another weapon in the duffel. And thus, could not kill her. Her shoulders were no longer pulled up to her ears.
This was short-lived.
The man turned and took the coin between his fingertips.
โOpen your mouth.โ
So she did, ever so slightly. This seemed to be enough for him. Suddenly, his face was close, and he was holding the coin between the tips of their noses.
He pulled back a bit, glanced down at her lips, and deliberately placed the coin, tails up, between her teeth.
โClose.โ
She did. This time, she couldnโt do anything to keep her teeth from chattering. Her breath escaped through them, and she tried not to let her tongue touch the back of the coin. It was no use; she trembled so much that she tasted the metallic, iron surface of the coin that had been dormant in the manโs pocket for the whole day.
The man began to circle the bed. His gaze was like nothing sheโd ever experienced. The man WAS the entire room. They breathed each other in. They breathed out. His presence was so overwhelming that she was sure heโd linger in the room for the months to come, and that the next guests would feel him just as she did.
Olga began to whimper. Her biceps flexed and tensed from the weight of the gun. She wanted to say please. Let me go. Please let me stop.
As if he read her mind, the man stepped to the side of her and leaned in so his lips were parallel to the shell of her ear.
โEnough.โ
His large hands replaced hers on the gun, and he set it back on the table. Olga cupped her hand in front of her mouth and let the coin fall. Tails up again.
She held it out to him.
โNo.โ
โSir?โ
โItโs yours. You guessed correctly.โ
The man reached into the duffel bag, pulled out two one-hundred-dollar notes, and set them beside her on the bed.
Olga was bewildered.
โThank you, Ms. Lasochka. You may put your clothes back on.โ
Her uniform was back on in a flash. She took the two hundred dollars and twenty-five cents and shoved them into the pocket of her slacks. The man had put the gun back in the duffel and slung it over his shoulder.
โIโll be back tomorrow,โ he said.
โโฆOkay.โ
Olga blinked, and by the time she opened her eyes, he was gone.
*
That was nineteen years ago. Olga was forty-five now. Not much about her face had changedโshe was just as depressed as sheโd been as a pregnant twenty-seven-year-old.
There was one difference.
Since she had Naomi, Olga could begin to imagine her tomorrows.
Her daughter. Whip smart. Smarter than she had been. Doors opening for her. Ones Olga never had.
Naomi would not turn out like her.
Olga opened the motelโs front desk drawer and pulled out the quarter she received all those years ago.
(this is my third time posting this because of formatting issuesโฆsryโฆstill on the hot mess express.)
Title: Fatherโs Daughter
TW//: violence, domestic violence, sexual assault
In Texas, Anton Chigurh has left behind a body count and a ferocious, 18 year old daughter.
Chapter I: The Fool (2.4K words)
โPeeping Tom is a myth and refers to a widely disputed event. The enigma first appeared in the accounts of the city of Coventry in 1773. Strangely, an oak effigy was painted for this "Tom." The reference in and of itself is vague. In the context of the myth, it's easy to imagine Tom as a single man, ugly and breathing in his own stench, drilling holes in his wooden shutters to get a glimpse of the full-figured, beautiful woman. You hear him moan under his breath and see the smile creep across his face. Perhaps you can imagine his erection and subsequent masturbation. But, in this case, Peeping Tom is purely symbolic. Consequently, Peeping Tom can refer to the nights that accompanied Lady Godiva through the streets of Mercia; this was happenstance. Or it could refer to her husband, who watched this wanton act with curiosity and shock as the chaste lady followed through on her word.
In any case, Peeping Tom has become a familiar moniker. The Peeping Tom exemplifies a strange response to sexual repression and avoidance. Calling it an act of "living vicariously" is much too soft a characterization, considering there could be a significant psychological response for the one being watched. Consequences for the watcher range from being ostracized to breaching legality to just plain being labeled a creep or a pervert.โ
"Enough."
Amid the students' giggles and their hands rapping on their desks in Naomi Lasochka's creative writing class, her teacher, Ms. Fin, stood up and adjusted her glasses, her face twisted in exasperation.
Naomi's small mouth fell open as her eyes scanned the classroom, and the hand holding the piece of paper with her debaucherous manuscript fell beside her thigh.
"I didn't even get to the best part!"
Feigning incredulity was Naomi's shtick, as was writing outrageous nonfiction for her class. Everybody in her fifteen-student class, besides her girlfriend, Haruka Miyamoto, broke out in a chant. Let her read!
Ms. Fin sighed and plopped back down in her wheeled chair, which turned sideways towards Naomi. She rotated her wrist, signaling Naomi to continue. Towards the back of the class, Haruka sat with her head buried in her arms on the desk.
"Thank you," Naomi said. She continued, skipping over a few paragraphs to the most inflammatory passages.
โIn addition, you could think of Ted Bundy, too, and how voyeurism aided him in his killings. You could think of the pitiful man in a Ronald Reagan mask and a sock covering his genitals, terrorizing the family in Vestavia Hills, Alabama, for only thirty seconds. The men who drill holes in college dorms, hoping for a glimpse of two curious college girls making love. The men who covet their neighbors' wives. The sweaty, fat man who cries himself to sleep every night after projecting himself ontoโโ
Ms. Fin threw the pen she had been chewing on the desk. "Thank you, Ms. Lasochka. You may sit down now."
Naomi tutted, placed her draft on the corner of the teacher's desk, and walked to her own with an exaggerated frown. She mirrored Haruka's humiliated position.
"Well, shit," she muttered into her arm.
Ms. Fin was going on about how their final pieces would be graded by the end of the day when Haruka picked her head up and turned towards Naomi, whose head was still on the desk.
"Why do you have to be such aโฆwhat's the wordโฆprovocateur?"
Naomi groaned.
The school bell was broken, so Ms. Fin dismissed them. Naomi abandoned Haruka in the classroom. She didn't want to stick around to get a talking-to from the teacher.
Haruka caught up with her at their shared locker. Naomi was laughing with a few other students at the piece and at how she hadn't even gotten to the part about weird genitalia yet. Haruka stopped behind the crowd and looked at Naomi's face. Really looked.
Naomi wasn't particularly popular, but she was regarded as a harmless class clown whose specialty was saying the most disagreeable things possible. She haphazardly cared about her appearance, her dark hair cut into a pixie, which she chose to show off her pierced ears and "sexy jawline." Her clothes were plain, but she often dressed them up with cheap, gold costume jewelry she'd purchased at a sex shop in town.
For the first time that day, the Japanese foreign exchange student smiled.
How lucky she was.
How beautiful Naomi was.
How frightening she was.
*
The two of them left school hand in hand. Naomi was whistling something as they made their way down the gravel road to the small cul-de-sac where they both lived.
"So," Haruka began in a gentle lilt. "What are you going to write about next?"
Naomi stopped and flicked her eyes to the side. "Why? I thought everything I do embarrasses you."
"You could never truly embarrass me."
They continued walking. Naomi scuffed her sneakers against the dirt, raising clouds of dust around their feet.
Haruka sighed and continued. "I know you claim not to take writing seriously, and that you're just having fun, but Naomi. You're actually extremely talented."
Naomi pointed to a bird wading along the pale sky. "Is that a hawk?"
Haruka stopped, yanking Naomi's arm back. She no longer had that gentle look in her eyes. She squinted.
"Naomi, I'm serious."
"Okay. Jesus. What's gotten into you?"
"I'm just saying. The amount of effort you put into writing wouldn't be normal for someone who claims to do it just for fun. I think it's more important to you than you let on."
Naomi let go of Haruka's hand and continued walking. Haruka was used to Naomi's periodic mood swings. She took after her mother in that way. When Naomi didn't want to talk, she really didn't want to talk.
"I don't want to talk about it right now."
"Alright."
Without turning around, Naomi reached for Haruka's hand behind her. It was coated in sweat and trembling. The two of them walked to their homes in silence.
"Can we hang out?" Haruka asked timidly. Her attempt to compliment Naomi, though well-intentioned, left her feeling guilty about changing her mood.
"Sorry. I have a shift tonight. Gotta get going."
Naomi turned away, her face burningโwhether from the Texas heat, anger, or embarrassment, she couldn't tell.
But Haruka was a constant she had, along with her mother.
She turned on her heel on the pavement of her mother's driveway and smiled at her girlfriend. Not with the court jester's visage she usually wore, but with the warmth she'd first felt when she met the exchange student in the fifth grade.
"I love you," Naomi whispered.
Haruka said she loved her too.
The two girls embraced, and it was Naomi who pulled her head from the sweet-smelling sweat of Haruka's shoulder to place her lips on her chapstick-laden mouth.
They smiled.
*
It truly was 45 minutes until her shift at the pizza joint.
Naomi passed her lanky mother, who was crumpled on the couch between sleep and waking, to change into her grease-soaked uniform in her room.
Naomi was meticulous. She knew it would take four minutes to take off her clothes and change, and two minutes to give her teeth a quick brush.
When she emerged from her bedroom, her mother, Olga, had stirred, somewhat frantically, judging by the way she hurried to the kitchen and pulled a piece of bread from the box. Her thin hand wavered on the cabinet handle as she grabbed the peanut butter and jelly. Olga knew the way her daughter liked her sandwichesโshe had known since Naomi was five years old. The peanut butter had to go into a mason jar, along with a squirt of jelly, and be whisked with a fork. Olga panicked. She didn't know what time it was or how long she had slept.
Naomi stopped behind her mother and watched her slight shoulders rise like angel wings as she added a splash of hot water to the mason jar and furiously clanked the fork against the sides. Olga breathed heavily. Naomi knew this. It came episodically. And she knew there was nothing she could do to help it.
Olga was panicking over something small.
Again.
"Mรกmochka," she whispered. Olga's labored breathing began to approach homeostasis. Her daughter's voice always had this effect.
Olga's shoulders relaxed. Slowly, she turned her head so her chin was pointed over her own shoulder.
She was much thinner than Naomiโnot that Naomi was overweight by any means. When she had been at the height of her work, when she'd met Naomi's father, she'd been full-figured and, according to the men she'd seen, desirable. However, ever since Naomi had been gestating inside her body without the support of a father, she'd been unable to eat. When Naomi was born in a motel bathtub, she was unable to breastfeed. When Naomi needed her the most, she was unable to help.
Unable.
Olga was unable.
She'd convinced herself.
Unable.
She faked a smile.
"Naomi."
Naomi stepped around her mother, grabbed a glass, and filled it with tap water from the sink. Before she took a sip, she kissed her cheekbone. Cold. Even in the Texas heat.
Of course.
Olga reached into the utensil drawer for a knife. As she slathered the piece of bread with the peanut butter and jelly mix, she began to speak.
"School called today."
Naomi threw her hands up and slammed the cup into the sink. She stomped over to the adjacent den. The one where Olga slept. The one where she could keep a close eye on the front door. The one she existed in. The one she basked in her fear in.
"It's nothing," Naomi said, picking her backpack up off the floor. "Don't listen toโ"
"Naomi."
Olga set the liquid-laden knife onto a strip of paper towel and turned to face her daughter. Naomi had stopped, her backpack half-slung over her shoulder. Olga's hands found the counter ledge, her bird-like neck bent, and her chin touched the crevice between her collarbones.
"Naomi," she began again. "I don't condone your perverted sense of humor."
"Mom."
Without raising her face, Olga brought her index finger up beside her ear.
"Neither does your teacher. But, in her words, there is something there."
Olga took a breath and really looked at her daughter. She admired the qualities that came from herโthe sharp jaw. The small mouth. The narrow shoulders. She tried to remind herself of these characteristicsโthat this was herself in Naomi. The things that reminded her that Naomi was partially made in her image.
She couldn't say the same for her eyes, which sat on her face like bottomless wells. She couldn't say the same for her nose, which was partially flattened against her face. She couldn't say the same for her large ears, which peeked out from behind the sharp cut of her hair.
She couldn't say the same for her wit. Her intelligence. Her attention to detail. Her tendency to treat everything in absolutes.
All or nothing.
"Your teacher doesn't appreciate the shock value."
Naomi opened her mouth to speak, but Olga only raised her finger higher and hissed between clenched teeth.
"But there is something there. We both agreeโthere is something there. Your teacher wants you to enter a writing competition taking place outside of Odessa."
It was the best thing Olga could have hoped for.
She'd spent nights in the same living room of their tiny ranch, worrying about the future and the past. Not Naomi's past, but her own, and how children were often destined to repeat the sins of their parents. She could notโwould notโimagine her daughter turning out the way that she had. A college dropout. A woman who only rode in the passenger side of men's trucks. Somebody who had money but had sacrificed herself to get it.
When Ms. Fin's call came, Olga allowed herself a glimmer of hope.
Maybe she won't turn out like me.
Naomi scoffed. She imagined her mother and Haruka occupying the same roomโa horrible cornering. The two of them were overriding the thought she'd always had. I'm doing this for fun. I'm doing this for nobody but myself. I'm doing this to make people laugh. I'm doing this so people don't see me for what Iโ
I'm doing this. I'm doing this.
I'm doing.
"Okay, fine."
Naomi ran over to the kitchen. Before she could give her mother a quick kiss on the cheek and take off on her bicycle to deliver pizza, she stopped. She looked into her eyesโblue as lapis lazuli. Her thin face. Her fine-line smile. Much different from her own.
She always wished she were like her mother.
"We can talk about it later, Mom. Right now, I've got to go."
***
Olga was used to Naomi leaving. Olga was used to everybody leaving.
She worked as a night auditor at a motel right on the interstate. This meant she and Naomi only saw each other for about two hours a day. It was better this way, she thought. She could spare the general public from her frigidity, saving it only for the late-night drifters and regular prostitutes who came through. And above all, she could spare her daughter from the answers to her prying questions.
Although Naomi had stopped asking where her father was a long time ago.
While she mulled over the conversation she'd had with Ms. Fin, she set off to complete her rounds. Look at the stove. Ensure all of the burners are off. Make sure the fridge seal is set, lest the perishables go bad. Put the wooden rod between the sliding door and the wall. Lock the back door and the deadbolt. Shutter your bedroom window. Shutter your daughter's bedroom window. Leave the neighbor's phone number on a Post-It note on the bedside table. Pick up all of the phones and check that there is a dial tone. Open her bedside drawer. Make sure the bear spray you placed there years ago is still there.
Ensure your daughter never asks a question about her father again.
Ensure your daughter never asks a question about Anton Chigurh again.
Hours after Naomi left, Olga put on her uniform. She stepped in front of her vanity mirror and straightened the collar. Even though her face was sallow and her eyes were dark, she looked more ready for the world than she ever would be.
"Good luck and be safe," she whispered to nobody in particular.
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