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Back Home - Chapter 2

His body reacted before his mind and he sprinted out the door, pulling his mother along with him. Screams and firing became more frequent. Though he didn't have a clue what was happening, he was too afraid to look back. He pictured a big, fit army of men dressed in a robotic costume, armed with lethal weapons tearing through his house, shooting at them, chasing. The thought made his adrenaline pop, and his speed doubled.

Christopher continued to hold on to his mother to the best of his ability, but soon she started to slacken. She's not going to be able to run as fast as me, he thought. She's helpless.

He immediately shook the thought out of his head in disgust. She was his mother, and he would do whatever he could to keep her alive, just as she did him for the past 16 years. He stopped for just enough time to squat down and pulled the frail woman on to his back, positioning her over his shoulder. He continued to move forward, eyeing the distance between him and the forest.

On the soldiers came, shooting bullets at the pair like it was a game of darts. Christopher zigzagged to dodge them, shifting his mother on his back every now and then to keep steady. But it wasn't long before he started falling. He managed to get back up on his feet for a while, but with each fall, the soldiers gained on them. Christopher didn't blame his staggering on his mother. She was an easy passenger, but it started coming to a point where sprinting and carrying a load wasn't so easy. He crashed to the ground, and his mother tumbled off of his back. He reached for the woman's hand and got back up on his feet once more, attempting to pull her up with him, but she stayed down. "Mom!" He cried. "Lets go!"

 He looked down into his mother's eyes, trying to yank her up again and again. It was no use. He looked back and the men were a short distance away. He yanked her arm again, but she wouldn't budge. It was as if she were nailed to the ground.

 Finally, his mother hauled herself up, but released her grip on her son's hand. She planted a kiss on his cheek and her eyes became glossy. She looked back, seeing how close the men were, and began to shake. "Go! Save yourself, Christopher." She hobbled straight toward the soldiers, and immediately an array of bullets were drilled into her gut.

 Christopher screamed for her, a sea of tears spilling down his cheeks. He was about to run after her, grab her in faith that she wasn't dead yet, but before he could take a stride he was staring into the coppery eyes of a hundred buff men, each with a sword, charging toward him. He stumbled over his own legs before getting back on track and running again. The boy was determined to get away. He grew farther away from the men as each stone tore through the skin of his bare feet. The swirling dust around him seemed to cloud his brain, making everything seem unreal. It was only his mother's previous words, telling him to save himself, that kept him going. She wanted him to live. That was the least he could do for her. He could no longer see ahead of him, much less think. But he knew to run. So he did.

 His legs carried him as far as they could manage, and then they took him even farther than that. It wasn't until the sound of  gunfire and angry men ceased when he considered stopping. He wanted to get away from the memories of that day. He wanted them to be gone for good. But he finally came to a halt when his legs seemed to snap in two. He gasped for breath. His muscles ached and his lungs burned. Christopher poured himself under a tree and hid his face in his shirt, which was drenched in sweat. His heart pounded against his chest. Boom, boom, boom.

And then he started to wail again. Hot, salty tears streamed down his cheeks and blotted angry, red spots onto his caramel skin. His mother's face shined in his head, and her voice spoke to him like a broken record. His mind replayed their last happy interaction; his mother planting a big wet kiss on his cheek, and he handing her a warm bowl of his famous breakfast stew. The memory curled his lips into a smile, but it dropped back into a frown as he snapped back to reality. She's gone. I'm never going to see her again.

 He wiped the tears off of his cheeks with his thumb and got up on his feet. He stood under the tree for a while before walking. The sky fell darker, from a blue to a red, as each hour passed the time. Still, the sound of battle didn't follow him, meaning the war had gone East. He'd be safe for a while. But he'd be alone.

 He was unfamiliar with the forest. The shadow of trees against smoky red sky appeared as great, tall soldiers with arrays of knives and swords. Dark shrubs shaped cannons and the king 's regal horses. Was that a war plane he saw? Or was it just a bird? His heart thrummed wildly. His hands trembled. The king 's existence was rudely smothered across everything in the woods; including himself. The king. This was all the king 's fault.

King Steven-- prince of 16 years, king of 4 -- was the dictator of Queba. He wasn't much older than Christopher, but the king was far ahead on the social pyramid. Christopher used to look up to King Steven, up until today, because unlike him and his family, Steven had it all. While he took care of his mother, Steven's mother took care of him. While he lived in a shack by a dirt road, Steven owned a palace and sea. Christopher would never live like the king, but now he was glad that he didn't. Perhaps if he took Steven's place, he'd be just as bad. He'd be the tyrant.

 He continued his trek for another hour before fatigue began to settle on him. The desire to get a long rest overwhelmed him, but he was determined to go on until nightfall. But soon he was stumbling over his feet.

Exhausted, he hauled himself up into a tree. He shut his eyes, and it wasn't long before it all went black.