The world was quiet.
The window washed grey light into the room.
The air was cold, and sharp, and still.
The window was propped open, with a small stick.
The bed, near the window, was crumpled, and the bedspread was in rags and stitched up, showing the many camping trips, and just general things, the blanket had been through.
The pictures on the white dresser showed a boy, first as a young child, bearing very few teeth. The second showed a boy, hair around his ears, standing near a red slide. The third showed, a male young adult , crouching near a hairy dog, that was trying to lick him. The picture frames were beaten, and battered, showing many years, of being thrown.
In the corner, in between a box, and the dresser, was a pile, of clothes, shoes, and books showing years of wear and tear, and young children.
Near the pile, was a box, and in that box was a gun.
He made his was, through the white-washed grass stocks. The moon was high in the sky, and about a quarter from being full. The boy was around 15, but he had many years in his eyes. He walked with determination, regret, and pride. He was walking back to his home. As he neared, he began to worry. What if someone caught him? What would his mother do?
He was about to reach up, and grab the stick that propped his window open, when be felt a sharp pain in the side of his head. His vision clouded over, red, and misty. He crouched, clutching his head in agony. He moaned quietly, so his mother wouldn't wake up. After the out burst, he was sure he was gonna do it.
Sarah was 10 years old, she had her whole life ahead of her.
He reached up and grabbed the stick with enough force to hurt his hand. He clenched his teeth in pain, holding a scream in the back of his throat.
She was playing in her yard one summer day.
He opened the window, with his uninjured hand, and hauled himself into his window, landing with a thump. He crossed his room towards the box. Reaching into the box he pulled out a rifle, it's ammunition, and a dark red rag, bearing many holes, and tears, and he began to rub it over the rifle's smooth barrel. Smiling.
She and her brother chased each other around, into their backyard.
Loading the gun, he jumped down from his window, down. Down. Down. Landing with a thud on the cold hard ground. He began talking long determined strides out of his property, and on to the field at the back of the house. Crossing it in only a few seconds.
She chases her younger brother, teasing him,"if you don't let me have a cookie a man will come get you!"
He came up to the first house behind the field, using an evergreen tree as a hiding spot he watched two young kids chase each other around their yard. The rain came then. Down. Down. Down. Upon Sarah and her brother, and the young man with the gun. He peered out from behind the undergrowth, and saw a young girl and a young boy, watching them run, and play. He thought of shooting them from here, but he saw a great chance he'd miss their small heads.
He got closer, making sure to stay out of sight, as the rain came down. Down. Down.
"A man will come! With a big gun and then he will shot you!" Sarah told her younger sibling, enjoying the fear in his eyes and written on his face. She was joking of course. She couldn't of known. She shouldn't of known.
He stayed low, until he was within sight, and cautiously, stood up. He looked down the end of his gun, as the rain came down down.
Sarah shrieked. She starred at the intruder, face wet, and stricken with pain, and power, hands shaking with shock, and mouth, twisted into a sickening grin of enjoyment, and pure satisfaction. Her brother yelled for his mother, but gave up, on the third scream. Sarah and the young man's eyes locked. Neither budging. No one could look away.
He felt glad. He felt happy. He felt, that if he wanted to, he could shoot them both. Right this second. All at once, his head started to hurt. The same sharp pain in the side of his head. His vision clouded over, red, and sickly. But he expected it would, so he didn't move. He didn't even flinch. He had his gaze locked on the two children. All of a sudden. As fast as it had came on. He realized what he was doing. He saw the young face at the end of the gun. He saw their scared, hopeless faces. He felt a sinking feeling in his heart, and dropped the gun. He saw the surprise on their faces, when he turned away, and began to run.
He ran to the end of the field. He ran up to his house. He reached up and grabbed the window, pulling the stick out, but it closed before he could hold it open, he was locked out. He ran around to the front of his house, pounding on the door, screaming for his mom. He was holding back tears, waiting for her surprised, and worried face. The door opened. His mother, a short lady in her late thirties, with long hair framing her face, and falling around her shoulders. He fell onto her, telling her everything. She listened quietly, and when he finished, she led him to his room, and walked off into their dimly lit kitchen, and began to call her doctor, asking when the soonest time she could get her son in, for an appointment.
