The Tenth Night
Greg Nottels
"It's not fair, you treat me like a kid," Samantha Nottels complained, crossing her arms over her chest as she glared at her father.
Greg Nottels brushed passed his daughter as he walked out to the front desk. "You are a child," he said, organising the paperwork on the desk and placing it on the shelf beneath it. "Besides, I'm your father - you'll still be a child to me when you're twenty years old."
The girl threw her arms up in exasperation. "That's not fair! I'm thirteen years old--"
"And therefore, a child," he confirmed, turning around and facing his annoyed daughter. "Which means that when I tell you that you're not allowed to go to a concert with your friend because I don't trust their older brother driving, you are to listen to me and not attempt to ask again."
"Why are you so paranoid?" she cried, stomping her foot. "Mom dying was a one-off tragedy - every car that passes this place isn't going to hit someone, and every person driving a car isn't a murderer, Dad. The driver that hit Mom was drunk and stupid, and is in jail for the rest of his life."
Greg ignored his daughter, clenching his fists at the mention of her mother. The man who killed her didn't deserve to be in prison but rather in a grave six feet in the ground. He deserved to feel the impact of a car mowing him down and then the agonising pain of just lying there, motionless, as he slowly lost unconscious only to never gain it back again. Instead he was still living, breathing, while Samantha's mother had been dead for twelve long years. Everyone said it got easier and he could agree that it did for Sam because she was only little when she lost her mother so there wasn't a massive attachment that was severed, but for him, it just got harder as the years passed by.
The bell to signal that someone had entered the motel sounded which made Samantha go into the back room and him release his fists before turning back to the counter to see a man that looked older than him enter with a girl that looked maybe a few years older than Samantha - if that. "Hi, welcome to Holly Grove's motel. Let me guess, a family room?" he said, looking between the man and girl with the assumption that they were related.
However, when the man shook his head and said, "Actually, a double room please," Greg felt his smile freeze on his face. He might have been assuming too much in those five words, but he'd met people like this man before and their intentions sickened him. How dare they come into his motel and ask for a double room.
But nevertheless, he turned to the board, grabbed a pair of keys from one of the hooks and turned back to the man. "Here you go, Room 17. If you would just sign your name here," he instructed, pointing to the log book that always sat on the front desk whenever he was at the counter. The man signed his name, took the keys and then guided the young girl out of the entrance and down towards where the rooms were located. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Greg turned the book around and pulled a list out of one of the desk drawers. There was already a couple of names on the list and as he read the man's name from the book, he wrote it down beneath the last name.
There was never that many people who stopped in his motel with an underage girl for sex, but he did get them sometimes and each time their name went down on his list and he wanted to just kill the man with his bare hands right then and there. All he could think about was it happening to his daughter and that was what made him keep making a new list each year - so that they didn't get away with what they were doing to those girls. After all, prison was too soft for people like that, something which he had found out when the man responsible for killing Samantha's mother had been jailed for life instead of sentenced to death. Prison was a blessing and none of those men deserved it. The law of this country was failing him and his daughter, and there was no way he was going to just sit and let them continue failing her. Like the old saying: if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.
Greg Nottels brushed passed his daughter as he walked out to the front desk. "You are a child," he said, organising the paperwork on the desk and placing it on the shelf beneath it. "Besides, I'm your father - you'll still be a child to me when you're twenty years old."
The girl threw her arms up in exasperation. "That's not fair! I'm thirteen years old--"
"And therefore, a child," he confirmed, turning around and facing his annoyed daughter. "Which means that when I tell you that you're not allowed to go to a concert with your friend because I don't trust their older brother driving, you are to listen to me and not attempt to ask again."
"Why are you so paranoid?" she cried, stomping her foot. "Mom dying was a one-off tragedy - every car that passes this place isn't going to hit someone, and every person driving a car isn't a murderer, Dad. The driver that hit Mom was drunk and stupid, and is in jail for the rest of his life."
Greg ignored his daughter, clenching his fists at the mention of her mother. The man who killed her didn't deserve to be in prison but rather in a grave six feet in the ground. He deserved to feel the impact of a car mowing him down and then the agonising pain of just lying there, motionless, as he slowly lost unconscious only to never gain it back again. Instead he was still living, breathing, while Samantha's mother had been dead for twelve long years. Everyone said it got easier and he could agree that it did for Sam because she was only little when she lost her mother so there wasn't a massive attachment that was severed, but for him, it just got harder as the years passed by.
The bell to signal that someone had entered the motel sounded which made Samantha go into the back room and him release his fists before turning back to the counter to see a man that looked older than him enter with a girl that looked maybe a few years older than Samantha - if that. "Hi, welcome to Holly Grove's motel. Let me guess, a family room?" he said, looking between the man and girl with the assumption that they were related.
However, when the man shook his head and said, "Actually, a double room please," Greg felt his smile freeze on his face. He might have been assuming too much in those five words, but he'd met people like this man before and their intentions sickened him. How dare they come into his motel and ask for a double room.
But nevertheless, he turned to the board, grabbed a pair of keys from one of the hooks and turned back to the man. "Here you go, Room 17. If you would just sign your name here," he instructed, pointing to the log book that always sat on the front desk whenever he was at the counter. The man signed his name, took the keys and then guided the young girl out of the entrance and down towards where the rooms were located. As soon as the door had closed behind them, Greg turned the book around and pulled a list out of one of the desk drawers. There was already a couple of names on the list and as he read the man's name from the book, he wrote it down beneath the last name.
There was never that many people who stopped in his motel with an underage girl for sex, but he did get them sometimes and each time their name went down on his list and he wanted to just kill the man with his bare hands right then and there. All he could think about was it happening to his daughter and that was what made him keep making a new list each year - so that they didn't get away with what they were doing to those girls. After all, prison was too soft for people like that, something which he had found out when the man responsible for killing Samantha's mother had been jailed for life instead of sentenced to death. Prison was a blessing and none of those men deserved it. The law of this country was failing him and his daughter, and there was no way he was going to just sit and let them continue failing her. Like the old saying: if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.