what his own father had done to him. After all this time, the
offending wounds had not been administered by neighborhood
bullies, but his own wife.
Lila was screaming and cursing the poor little six year old for
not acting properly at a photo shoot, alternately raining down
violently on her little back with fists and pinching the tender skin
until it bled. Theresa didn’t cry, but merely whimpered horribly. This
was something the child had obviously grown accustomed to, crying
being justification for further abuse. Dennis reeled and was
paralyzed, until he witnessed the very worst part: Lila growled at
Theresa that she deserved the beating because she was just a “dirty
little Indian” and that she better not say anything about this to her
father or he would leave her, just like her real mother left her—
because she was bad. There followed one last blow to the side of the
little girl’s head, and then both Lila and Theresa looked up, startled
by the advancing figure with the clenched fists.
All his life, Dennis Guzman had learned to live with misfortune
and misery. He had learned to swallow his bitterness only because he
had grown accustomed to the taste. But now, when he had finally
been able to enjoy the sweet fruit of contentment, he found that too
poisoned by rot. This time, it wasn’t his callused frame that was
receiving the blows, but the body of his defenseless, fragile little
daughter. He thought he had given her what he had missed out on—
happiness, contentment, safety. He had failed. Years of suppressed
emotion exploded through his beaten body and purged itself in one
violent flash.
Such was the force with which Dennis Guzman’s fist connected
with the temple of his wife, that she crumpled to the floor like a
marionette who’s strings had been severed. Lila Cole died instantly.
Dennis stared down numbly at his wife’s prostrate body while his
daughter crept over to his side and held tightly to his leg. She didn’t
cry, but only looked up at her father and asked whether they could go
home now.
Dennis Guzman was crucified. The state had lost their beloved
Lila Cole. They wanted nothing less than death. But even through his
incessant misery, Dennis Guzman wanted nothing less than life.
When they broke into his abandoned home, the authorities found
only a poem he had left on his bed. It read:
BIG AMERICAN BREAKFAST
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