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The Last Breath.

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Thunder boomed in the off distance, followed by the bright streaks of lightning, illuminating the sky. Inside the small house, last on the little dirt street, was a mother and her son, along with a drunken father. The boy was only nine, with short blonde hair and hazel eyes; eyes that were now stricken with fear and hate. His young mother was holding him back, attempting to restrain him from attacking his father; the father that abused and beat him and his mother. Another streak of lightning flashed, filling the dark house with a white light, revealing the smug smile on the father’s despicable face.
“What do you think you’re doing, boy?” his voice hissed menacingly. “You think you can hurt me, you little runt?”
The boy jerked in his mother’s grasp, which was getting looser and looser with each sob. The knife in his back pocket yearned to plunge deep into the sick man’s evil heart. He deserved to die for all the pain and suffering he put them through.
“I’ll kill you, I swear I will!” the boy snapped, with another mangled jerk.
The man’s loud snickers could be heard over even the thunder’s claps, “You’re a fool, boy! A stupid fool who knows nothing. I’m a grown man. I’m strong, you’re but a scrawny piece of meat on bones, yet you think you can kill me?” Another harsh laugh escaped his cracked lips.
“Let me go, Maw, let me go!” the boy wailed angrily. His mother grasped his waist even tighter, her arms bruised and bleeding from his struggling and clawing.
“No, he’ll hurt you!” she sobbed.
“See, son? Listen to your mother. She knows best!” the man laughed in a raspy wheeze. Getting up from the chipping rocking chair, he stood in front of the two of them, casting an even darker shadow over.
Stroking the mother’s face softly, he cooed, “She deserves a reward for her loyal behavior. You’ll enjoy tonight, love.”
As her lip quivered, tears escaped her closed eyes; her frail arms weakening from her son’s thin waist, falling limp against her body.
The boy used this opportunity to his advantage, and ripped the knife from his back pocket, tearing a hole in his tattered jeans in the process. He jumped up at his father and plunged it deep into the fleshy shoulder, pulling the blade down the muscle of the arm. The man screamed in agony, howling words of hate into the muggy air. He smacked his wife square in the face in his attempt to snatch the boy by his hair. He glared at the gash in his arm; blood seeped down from it. He glared at his despicable son who did it to him. With a bloody blade in hand, the silver -gleaming in the constant flashes of lightning- dripped crimson liquid soundlessly into a red puddle on the creaky wood floor.
“Damn wretched child from hell! You’ll live your last night tonight, boy!” he hollered, snatching the knife and cotton blue shirt of the child, lifting him to his disgruntled face. “I’ll be sure to make this hurt,” he growled, breathing a stench of tobacco and alcohol into the youngster’s fear-stricken face.
With spite, the son spit in his father’s crazed eyes, and then kicked him with all his might. With a grunt, the father released the blonde haired child and the knife, which clattered noisily to the other side of the room, next to the hole-infested screen door.
With much effort, the boy scrambled to his feet and hurried to the knife, grabbing it in his hand as his father towered over him. With a quick hand, he reached for the kid’s neck, but peeled away feverishly when the sharp silver sliced his forearm. Blood was drizzled down both arms now. The boy took pleasure in his father’s fury and pain.
“The pain, it hurts, don’t it, Paw? Now you know how Mamma and I feel.” He pointed the sharp object with a shaky hand, at the man’s brooding chest as a threat when he tried to take a step closer.
“You know I love you and your mother. You know—“
“Shut up! You’re lying like you always do!” the boy cried, tears of hate began to form and run off his long lashes. Again, the man tried to inch his way closer.
“Now, now, no need to cry, son. Just lower that there knife and we’ll all be okay,” he said, reaching out for the weapon himself. Without hesitating, realizing what his father was trying to do, the son charged, stabbing straight into the evil heart. With a shocked gasp, the man looked down at his chest, grabbing a hold of the handle of the piercing thing inside of him. Choking, he yanked it out, looking at his son with complete disbelief.
“Take…care…of…your…mother…like…I…didn’t…” he breathed, before collapsing to the ground before the boy’s dirty sneakers. Shaking with horror and disbelief himself, the boy dropped the knife and sank to his knees besides his lifeless father, nudging the matted hair of the man’s head. There was no response. Within an instant, he began sobbing. He hated the man, why was he crying? He did not know. What he did know was that he was one that did this to his father, his Paw. With blurred eyes, he wobbled on unsteady feet to where his mother lay face down beside a kitchen stool.
“Mamma?” he questioned, shaking her still structure. “Please wake up, Paw’s dead!” he pleaded, shaking her more forcefully, horrified tears crawling their way out of his glands.
He rolled her over, seeing if she was still breathing; she was. He sighed in relief for just a moment, and then hurried back to the dead body. Grabbing both legs, he creepingly dragged his once-was father to the screen door. After finding a big enough rock to hold the swinging door open, he managed to get the man out of the house, off the porch, and in the bushes.
When the clock struck midnight, the boy and his mother were already asleep in their bed on the second floor, peacefully. However, on the first level, one could still see the stains from the pools of blood, and the streak marks of the dragging of the body. There outside in the pouring rain, the eye could spot a bloody hand, uncovered by the thicket of leaves, surrounded by a red sea. That body would never breathe again.



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Laughternchoclate said...
Apr. 9, 2010 at 9:29 am

*Shivers* This is kinda creepy but i was like go boy gooo!!!

Great job, i felt like i was there and the anger was like tangible. 

 
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