Author's note: This story is fairly long and relatively light on 'action.' If that would trouble you, there are certainly more appealing choices out there.
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I am a sinner. As are all men, of course, hounded eternally by our own darker natures. But my sin is the heavier, not because it is unforgivable but because I am too much a coward to ask forgiveness, too enamored of my own sickness to seek its cure. I tried as best as I might - fought the evil within me, and lost, and wallowed for a time in guilt. I have grown tired of that now. My sins are a part of me, as much as my heart, and as readily removed. I do not know what waits for me when life's final tally is called, but I pray that, at least among men, I may be understood before I am judged.
It began on an unremarkable Friday in the middle of autumn, when the daylight hours began to shorten and the heat outside declined into a gentle tepidity. Work at the office was light that week, and our progress rapid; in recognition of that fact, I decided to let my department go home early, to take advantage of the mild weather and still-empty streets. It was a concession to myself as much as to my subordinates, and I was one of the first out the door, taking the drive home in a comfortably contemplative mood. At seventy miles long, my commute was normally a source of frustration, but with Dylan warbling through the speakers and majestic cumulonimbus clouds puffing up in the distance before me, I covered the distance in good time and in contentment. My mind was occupied with nothing more serious than what that evening's meal would be - Fridays we often went out to a restaurant, but I reflected that today offered a good opportunity for me to practice my own kitchen skills.
The transponder on the dashboard opened the gate to my community with hardly a second's pause, and shortly I pulled up the peach brick driveway to my home. A comfortable two-story affair in a neo-Mediterranean style, it bristled with low roofs and arches, warm in construction and just imposing enough to satisfy a man's need to feel important. Too large, perhaps, for just two people, but I was happy with it all the same. Indeed, at that moment I do not think I would say I was unhappy with anything in my life; the troubles of the past were but a memory, the birthing pains of the beautiful Now.
Such contentment, of course, begged to be upended. The house was quiet as I stepped through the hand-carved wooden doorway, and on the edge of perception I could hear the ambiguous sound of human exertion, of ragged breath and urgent murmurs, a sound that whispered more than said. I did not have to go far to find the source. Passing around the corner into the sitting room, I found on the couch a young couple locked in a passionate embrace. Half of that couple I knew very well. My darling daughter Emily sat there, halfway to horizontal, her blouse and bra cast carelessly upon the floor while a still-dressed and shaggy-haired boy worked his mouth eagerly against hers, one free hand pawing and kneading at the pale flesh of her breasts. Her eyes were closed, her brief raven locks disheveled as she clasped her suitor, accepting the attentions he proffered upon her slim frame with soft, almost plaintive moans.
They were too distracted with their embrace to notice me, and I too surprised by it to respond, so for a handful of moments I just watched as the boy dropped his hand beneath the hem of Emily's skirt, and his head dipped to take her rigid, light pink nipple into his mouth, sucking at it as if it were a boiled sweet. She was midway through another low, evocative cry when her eyes suddenly shot open as though appraised of my presence, flinty grey orbs staring straight at me, speaking already of a horrified embarrassment. In that moment my own shock subsided, and the boy half-jumped as I roared out, "Just what the hell is going on here?!"
"Hey, whoa man," the lanky, half-shaven boy witlessly offered as he scrambled off my daughter and staggered to his feet, "That is, um, Mr. West. I'm - Emily invited me over, and I was just, we were, uh..."
He trailed off nervously as I glared at him with murder in my eyes. There are some fathers, perhaps, who can take the thought of their daughters' romantic encounters with equanimity, but I was far from one of them - finding this stumble-mouthed idiot in the middle of trying to have his way with her was enough to make me wish I had a shotgun to wave about, and perhaps a quantity of quicklime. I had to settle for the lesser gratification of seeing him flinch as I advanced on him.
"I can see what you were doing, dirtbag," I rumbled, and as he started to protest, hooked a hand around to the back of his neck, squeezed at the nerves until he squealed.
"Aaah! Jesus, man, leggo!" He twisted about, trying to get loose - a futile effort, as I easily had fifty pounds on him. Without pause I trucked him back to the front door and unceremoniously shoved him out onto the walk, where he collapsed in an undignified sprawl before slowly picking himself up, complaining all the while. "Goddammit, you can at least gimmie a fucking second to talk."
"If I catch you sniffing around my daughter again," I snarled, dangerous and low, "I'll break you in half and bury you in my backyard." I slammed the mahogany door in his face, entirely beyond any concern for what he might say. The situation explained itself. Anger still drove me as I walked back to the sitting room, where Emily, having quickly donned her blouse, now sat quietly with burning cheeks and downcast eyes, her delicate hands clasped in her lap. But even her clear contrition and my normal regard for her did not contain my ire. "Don't think I've forgotten about you, little lady." I groused at her. "What the hell were you thinking, bringing home a guy like that?"
"I was-"
"I can tell just by looking at him that he's no good," I cut her off curtly. "That guy's only after one thing, and you can be damned sure your happiness isn't it. I didn't think I raised you to be that naïve. I didn't think I had to worry about you bringing home drugged-up idiots to take advantage of you."
"He's not-" A tone of anguish undercut her voice, but I ignored it.
"I mean, for God's sake, Emily, has your brain stopped working? Don't you think? I hope you're embarrassed about this, because you damn well ought to be. What were you - damn it," I sputtered angrily. "You'll get a hell of a reputation acting like that, I can tell you. They'll be penning up your name on the bathroom stalls." She was silent now, and in my ranting fury her averted eyes were another irritant. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, for god's sake!"
Dutifully, she looked up, and I saw the beginning glimmerings of tears in her silver eyes. Instantly, the anger froze in my blood, turning to a cold, sorrowful regret. I could never bear to see Emily cry; her tears filled me with the guilt of my past failures, rent open my heart to the winter of her suffering, until I could do nothing but try to make her feel better.
