Bullet Holes

Prologue

 I am thirteen again. My mother's cries are keeping me awake. My father's hitting her again. This was a routine; he'd come home drunk every night and take it out on her to build up his shattered ego. She doesn't cry all the time; he must be using his belt. I hear the breaking of utensils and sound of the belt whipping on the wall. I hear the shattering of wooden articles; a sound my ears aren't quite accustomed to. My parents think I am asleep, has believed that lie for years. I creep out of my bed to see what he had broken. As I crawl on my all fours, the whipping abruptly stops and my mother's cries ceases. I peek to see my father crash into the couch and cover his eyes with his arm. I walk into the kitchen to discover fragments of the earthen jar I had bought yesterday. I feel on my knees as I witnessed the horror. As my gaze lifted I saw with her hair disheveled over her face and blood trickling down her forehead. The feeling I felt next will be the cause of many misdeeds I committed in my future life. I felt revulsion to my life and malice to the person who'd taken away the person I loved the most in the world. Where was the God who my mother prayed to everyday? Wasn't He supposed to protect her? I lost my faith in God that moment and gave over to the Devil. My father was snoring now; he should be awake to feel this. As he opened his bloodshot eyes, he would've never known the agony he would feel when I thrust the knife into his heart. I saw his face contort in agony and the appalling look on his face and ultimately his peaceful pallor when his infernal soul left his repugnant body.

'Andy?' she opened her heavy eyelids and looked at me. 'Why aren't you asleep?'

As I moved to answer her she saw what my figure had hid, the dead body of her husband.

'Oh God, Andy, what've you done?' I saw her eyes let out a fountain of tears as she uttered those words.

'It's okay Ma, you're free now.' I assured her.

'Oh God, why would you do this to me?' she crawled to him and held his head in her lap and let out a thousand lamentation. I could assume that she too lost faith in God that day.

'Oh my love! My sweet husband!' then she glared at me with her teary eyes. 'You scoundrel! Get out of my house! Get out!' she dragged me in my night clothes and threw me out of the house into the dirty ground. Those were the last words my mother ever spoke to me and the last time I ever saw her. I ran with my dirty night clothes trying not to wince at my injuries. I knew where I was running; I could smell the muddy ditches and hear steady flow of the river. As I jumped into the river I didn't know if it was a decision made by me or others for me. I didn't die from that, and now, I wish I did.