The Post-It List

Taken Hostage

When I ran, no one reacted. The birds sang as if it was any other day and the people spoke of their grown children, flaunting it as if it were a trophy. No one tried to stop me. They just stood there and went about with their merry ways. There was no abnormalities. 

My feet continued to run, and my heartbeat began to quicken. *Boom Boom Boom* It was gunshots. The house grew closer in my sight range and I could almost see the details. I could see the spot where dad got so mad, he punched the door, and even when Tilly drew on the walls. I could see the small garden mom tried to start when I was nine. Things were simpler then. Mom was happy, and dad had a job. I was just an innocent child and Tilly didn't exsist. Well, she wasn't born. But the day my parents brought home that small, chubby baby, everything went wrong. It was obvious that all of my family's problems linked back to Tilly, but she is just a girl. Maybe that is why dad hates her. But mom doesn't have the heart to give her up. 

I glanced back and looked. Tilly's little legs were running too. Her eyes were dripping with tears as her mouth called my name. But I couldn't stop. I wanted to yell back and tell her to not worry, that it'll be okay. But how can you lie to a little girl? No matter how easy it is, it just is wrong. The guilt will eat you alive. I turned to my regular side and ran. Sweat beads fell from my hairline, falling into my eyes. But blind or not, I didn't stop. The house was closer now. My feet carelessly led me up the steps to the porch. My hand twisted the knob and I whispered my goodbyes. This was it. Why was I giving up so easily? Why did such a small girl have such a big impact on me? This was unorthodox. But as I good brother, I pushed the door in and faced my demons. (When I pictured writing this, I saw an 80's montage with flowers and drugs, but now I realise how inappropriete that is.)

The door opened so slowly, but the creak the doorknob made was all it took. My father stared at me in discust. Staring into his  red eyes, I saw that I was face to face with death. And he gave me a good long staredown and spit in my direction. My mother sprouted a look of agony and fear all mixed together. It rested on her face, it was a glue. My eyes trailed back to my father and I could see he had an idea. Catching my breath, he grabbed me. When I caught a glimpse of the small pistol, I gasped, fearfully. He spoke no words, just watched. I felt a _clunk_ on the side of my head. Then I noticed what my father was staring at. My mother. He watched her reaction. He had a gun and it was pressed to my head. The door was wide open. Did he plan this? Did he want the whole neighborhood see him take his son hostage? The very son he played football with five years ago? The one who did everything with his father? Why woud he do this? 

He pulled the gun from my head and shot a bullet to the ceiling. A warning. My mother started to sob, "Please. . .Don't." was all I could comprehend as my father put the gun back to my skull. She tried to reach out, a compromise, but his grip around me tightened. Her palm dropped and she surrenedered. 

"Don't you wanna save your boy? You'd do anything for him. Save him!" my father urged, pressing the gun tighter -- oh so tightly -- to my skull. And he was right.

"You're right. Take me. Just let him go." she sighed. lowering her head. Red hair falling, tears dripping, she told me she loved me. I felt the gun leave my head once more. I wanted to close my eyes, but I coudn't. My eyes were glued to my mother. A final bullet was released and I watched. My mothers painted body hit the floor, and the last sound I heard was a soft _thud_. I couldn't breathe as my father laughed. 

The only thing I felt was Aacies silky hands touch my face, gliding over the surface. My father wasn't there. But I could still see him. The image of my mother hitting the floor imprinted in my mind. Subconsciencly, I began to cry. Aacie rubbed them away. How much time had passed? Every bone in my body felt numb. I remember my father throwing me on the floor. I was trash in his eyes. I was trash in my own eyes as well.

I deserved to die, and I am absolutly positive that my mother died an innocent person.

A/N: I know it is kinda sad and I am going off track of the real topic of the story. Please comment rate and subscribe. If you want. Sorry for the errors