My eyes became heavy. Like sandbags were forcing them downward. I closed my eyes for a moment. Just a moment. Only to be awoken by the soft meows of kittens.
Standing up, I listened for the soft cries. Gazing around, I noticed a bale of hay. On top of it was a grey kitten along with its sibling. A calico kitten.Trying to hold in my squeals, I dashed across the loft, most likely waking up my parents from the pounding my stolen sneakers made on the wooden floor. Staring in awe, I picked them up. The small creatures only fit into the palm of my hand. Their fur was soft and fuzzy as they meowed for their mama with their small eyes still closed.
“Brooklyn!” My mother’s voice shook me back into reality, “What are you doing up there?”
Silently swearing at her, I put the kittens back onto the hay. Instead of climbing down the ladder, I grabbed the rope that hung from the ceiling and tarzaned my way down to the hard, dirt floor.
“I was looking around” I say like it’s nothing
“Looking for what?” She said behind gritted teeth, obviously in a great deal of pain
If she knew that I found kittens and didn’t kill them, she’d call me weak and kill them herself. I just couldn’t have that.
“Now, now,” Daddy came to my rescue, putting a hand on her shoulder. We locked eyes as he stared over her head, mouthing the words “She’s fine”
Mama threw a few swear words at Daddy and left in a frenzy. Looking over at Daddy, he just shook his head and stared at the ground. Giving a weak smile at him, it quickly flattened as my stomach growled.
“Don’t worry,” Daddy said,coming out of his daydream. Chucking me a red apple, he said “I stole this for you”
“Thank you,Daddy!” I yelped, smiling because I haven’t ate anything in three days.
My smile fell as soon as it came.
“Daddy?” I questioned, pointing to his red stained hands, “What did you do?”
“He was a loner,” Daddy reassured, “He would’ve called the cops, so I had to take care of him”
“Daddy!” I pouted, “You should’ve let me help! I know how to do it! My first kill was six years ago! I haven’t killed since I had to take care of that teenaged boy a few months back!”
“Just eat-” Daddy began before my mother ran into him.
“They’re coming!” My mother whispered, tears running down her reddened cheeks.
“Let’s move!” Daddy yelled.
Throwing the apple down, the three of us ran to the only place we could.
An open field.
Pops. Shots. Sirens. Heart pounding. Legs screaming in pain. I didn’t want to go to jail again, netherless an orphanage.
For only being 34, my parents ran better and faster than me. I trailed a good three meters behind them.
But then Daddy fell.
In shock, I turned around and sped towards the man in blue who shot my father. Grabbing the weapon, I shot him in the chest. Several times. I was angry. I couldn’t control myself. He was moaning in pain, taking short, shaky breaths.Throwing the gun to the ground, I raised my fist and let it fly.
I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I beat him. I just didn’t care anymore. I hit him so hard, I swear that I broke his nose on the first swing. I hit him until he stopped breathing. I beat him to death. When he stopped breathing, I know that I did my job.
Dashing back to him, I saw Mama sobbing into his chest as he lays on the ground.
“Daddy,” I whispered, going to his right side and stroking his messy hair.
“2839 West Street. Go there. I love you.” He croaked.
With that, the color drained from his face. My heart grew cold.
“We g-gotta go, B-brooke” Mama stuttered, trying to stiffen her cries.
“No,” I growled at her. Looking into her crystal blue eyes, I saw anger. Not sadness, but anger.
“Be that way, you little brat!” She screeched
Ignoring her rage as Mama ran back to the barn, I looked on to my father’s still open vivid, heavenly blue eyes.They were pained with sadness. Gently s
hutting his eyes, I kissed him on the forehead and headed towards where my mother had ran off.
I was numb. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t angry. Nor scared, nor relieved. I didn’t feel anything.
As I trudged through the grass, the scene replayed over and over again.
“2839 West Street,” I said to myself
As I reached the barn door, I saw my mother. She looked over at me. Taking a few steps forward, she grabbed her stomach in pain. It was too much for her as she fell to the ground. It was clear that the pain was excruciating. You could tell that it took everything she had to pull herself together and continue on.
We walked back to the alley in silence. All six hours in nerve wrenching silence.
My mind screamed and scolded me to speak to my mother. To comfort her.But I couldn’t. Not after that. Not ever again.
“Mama?” I finally gained the courage to speak, “You hungry? I can steal something for us”
“No,” She replied, sliding down the brick wall, “I just need some sleep”
“Goodnight, Mama” I said, closing my eyes.
Early in the morning, I caught a glimpse of the sunrise. Pink mixed with red and a delicious splash of orange.
“Mama-” I began before my eyes widen from the horrific scene laid out in front of me.
My mother lied there. Dead. Skin freezing. In her right hand was a switchblade. Crimson tears ran down her opened up wrist. Looking down at her lifeless body, I wasn’t sad. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel sorry.
Looking at the switchblade that she held in her palm, I saw a piece of paper, also. Grabbing it from her dead hands, I read it aloud.
“Saint Jude’s Hospital,” it read, “Room 302”
Within reading the note, I ran. All the way. I just ran.