Killer Kid
The boy is twelve. The man raped his mother and shot his dad. He was eleven two weeks before. He was happy with two happy parents and a happy little brother two weeks before. He’s twelve and three days old now. He’s down to one parent, who has lost her happiness, her smile faded into a crumble of tear-stained lips, tears that weep so constantly from her eyes that the boy and his little brother have to stay at their grandparent’s house. The grandparents who lost a son. A grandmother who too seemed inflicted by the same dread of ever flowing tears. The boy was twelve with many friends in a neighborhood that talked, on a block that knew everyone, on a street where one of his older friends had a glock. The boy had a habit of listening, eavesdropping, his father called it, information gathering, he called it. His father laughed, his father was fun and funny and loving and is now a was, a past tense. His mother was caring and sweet and playful, now she’s a body on a couch always crying. He was kind, smart, and well behaved, now he’s angry, angrier than he ever knew anyone could be, too angry to listen to his grandfather when he said, “anger does no one any good,” but not angry enough to heed one warning, “bottled up anger leads to trouble.”
The boy decided it be best if he unbottled that anger. The boy heard, from the neighbors who talk, who had done it — the deed, the stealer of his happiness — he heard he was an old boyfriend of his mother. He found out from the older kids where he might be hiding out. He found out it was about three miles away. The boy had grown up hearing, “no one talks to the feds,” he hadn’t known what that meant until now. He, at twelve and four days, realized now what the cops meant when they said, “pack it up, we ain’t gonna get nothin’ from around here,” the night his mother was raped and father was killed.
The boy, twelve and five days, borrowed the glock and rode his bike three miles to a decrepit house at the end of a hollowed street. That boy waited until the sky got darker than he had ever seen, his eyelids untrained at this hour he had to fight the urge to curl up and sleep right there behind the bushes across the street from the house which had the man in it that stole his happiness. The boy crept up to the house, he knew a house that old wouldn’t have good AC like his grandparent’s, he knew a window would be cracked to let the night breeze in to help cool the dry summer heat. He found that window on the left side of the house. He pushed the window up and climbed through. The boy walked through the old house, heart racing, body sweating, nerves jumping at every squeak the old house produced. He held the borrowed glock so tight that his fingers tingled. He found a door that looked like it might be the door to a main bedroom, he slowly pushed it open, his heart feeling ready to explode, the door squeaked open and he saw the man in bed, asleep.
The man who stole his happiness. He recognized the man’s face, he had seen it before but couldn’t place where and when. The man’s name wasn’t familiar to him when he heard it from the neighbors so it was a mystery to him how he knew the face. But he did know the face. A part of him was so scared that he wanted to just close his eyes, shoot and run out, not caring to know if he shot and killed the man or not. But the other part of him, the angry part, wouldn’t have it. The older kid he borrowed the glock from told him, “when you got dat nigga in sight you tell’em you smokin’ his ass for ya mom and dad.”
“Wake up nigga.” The boy, twelve and six days now, yelled. The man slowly woke, slowly until he noticed a small shadowy figure pointing a gun at him, then slow turned into quick; which turned into his back up against the wall, his hands up, his words, pleading, “don’t shoot, don’t shoot,” that is until he noticed the figure wasn’t a small man, but a boy. “Anthony, is that you?” A boy he knew. “Don’t say my name, I don’t know you.” “I know but…” “Fuck you nigga, I’m smokin’ yo ass for my mom and dad.”
The boy pulled the trigger, the bang was much louder than he expected, the kick from the gun was as well, he stumbled back and rubbed his ears. The man yelled out curse words to describe his pain. The boy aimed the gun again. “Naw son, stop, come on, you ain’t gotta do this.” “Yea, nigga, I do. You raped my mother and killed my dad.” “I’m your father, Anthony. You gon’ kill your own father boy?” “You killed my dad.” The boy, twelve and six days, pulled the trigger, he didn’t stumble back or rub his ears this time. He watched the man slump off the bed in a bloody heap, he watched as the man took his last breath and closed eyes that will never reopen again. The boy lowered the glock, turned and walked out. No longer nervous, or scared, but still angry. But not angry at the man, angry he can’t go back to two weeks ago. Back to when he was happy. Back to when he had two parents, not one. Back to when everything was right in his world.
The boy, twelve and thirteen days, was not eavesdropping but information gathering when he overheard his grandfather quietly ask his grandmother, in their bedroom, if she thinks the boy should know the man who raped his mother and killed his dad, was his father.
