Short Stories/Practice

Fear The Reaper

J felt his wrist burn. It was a pain unlike anything he had ever experienced. As he winced and grabbed at the symbol forming on his flesh, he looked around the table, hoping no one saw him flinch. His family was enjoying their Chinese takeout, unaware of the mark. J was relieved, but that feeling didn't last long. A shiver coursed through his spine. This was the start of the end.

The Mark was a seal of permission for anyone to kill him. In fact, it wasn't just permission, it was civic duty. Ever since the Reaper went out of commission, they had made a decree that anyone receiving the symbol was to be killed on sight. This kept the population from exceeding its carrying capacity, and was relatively easy compared to an individual doing everything themselves.

J stood up, excusing himself from the dinner table as he did. His parents and sister looked at him with confusion. "I uh... gotta use the restroom." He sprinted to the bathroom and locked the door behind him.

He took the time to collect himself mentally. A splash of cold water to the face ought to wake me up, He thought falsely. He did it anyway, feeling the frigid water drip off his chin. Realizing this was in fact NOT a dream, J broke into tears. He had never heard of anyone younger than 18 getting the mark. Why would the Reaper target him? ...Or was it random? His thoughts were interrupted by a firm knock on the door. "Hey J, you alright in there?" It was his sister Amanda. "Yeah, just washing up." He lied between sobs. "Okay... if you need to talk, I'm here." He could hear her footsteps retreat back to the kitchen.

J exited the bathroom, unsure of where to go from here. He could reveal the mark, and hope his family was sane enough to not kill him. That's stupid, he thought. They have to kill me. Maybe dying at his family's hand wouldn't be the worst way to go out. But J had his whole life ahead of him. He decided against telling them, and walked to his room. He grabbed a hand-me-down hoodie that was too long for him. It covered his wrists easily. He walked back out to the dinner table. He sat in the same spot, but didn't touch his food.

His mother was the first to speak up. "Are you feeling alright honey? Are you sick?" She leaned over and felt his forehead. "I'm just a little cold, that's all." Her eyes still showed concern. "Amanda told me you were crying in the bathroom. Is there something you need to tell us?" He loved his mother dearly, but lied to her out of self-preservation. "It's just that... Chloe's dog died, and I liked him a lot." The words spilled out of his mouth easily.

"Oh... I'm so sorry baby." Mom scooted her hair next to J's and hugged him tightly. "Now roll up your sleeves. You'll get them dirty." She started to roll them up, but J pulled back. His mother was surprised, but her eyes narrowed. "Jerome Gordon Wayne, show me your wrists RIGHT NOW." J cautiously revealed his wrists.

The mark was easy to see. His mother shook her head in unbelief. "Richard... grab the gun." She instructed his father. He stood up, and walked slowly to their bedroom. "We'll make it quick and painless." J looked around the table. His fight or flight response kicked in, and he jumped up out of his seat, breaking his mother's grip as he did. He punched her square in the jaw, disorienting her and knocking her to the floor.

As he stared at his mother on the floor, J repeated the phrase "I'm so sorry," over and over again out loud. He slowly backed up towards his bedroom, taking small steps. A glint of silver flew past his right shoulder. He quickly glanced at the person responsible for the attack. It was his older sister.

"Amanda... please don't do this! I-It was a mistake! I-I don't want to die... not today." His eyes welled up, and he looked to his sister, hoping she would understand.

Her eyes were cold, emotionless. She clutched the kitchen knife firmly, and she gritted her teeth. "The Reaper doesn't make mistakes." She hissed. "And to be honest, I always wanted a sister." Amanda lunged at him again, this time with more precision. For once J's 16 years of living he was glad he had taken martial arts classes as a child. He grabbed her by the wrists, slid his foot behind hers, and threw her backwards. She lost her balance and crashed into the kitchen table, snapping it cleanly in half. Noodles and splinters of wood flew everywhere.

J turned and hightailed it down the short hall to his room. He turned around, checking if he hurt his sibling. As he did, he smacked into something large. His dad stood above him, holding a rifle. It was aimed at his chest. "Where do you think you're going, kiddo?" He said, cocking the gun as he spoke.

"Dad, please..." He mustered, staring at the weapon. "I'm only 16... it has to be a mistake!" His father's gaze softened, and he whispered, "I promise it'll be quick." His finger tightened on the trigger, and...

The gun made a soft clicking sound, signaling it was out of ammo. J stood there, stunned. "Guess I'll have to do it the old fashioned way." His father's hands moved towards his neck. J swiftly dodged his hold and dashed into his room. He closed and locked the door. The handle jiggled aggressively. "Come on out boy. There's nowhere to go." J believed his father. He searched the room in a panic. Then it dawned on him. I have a window. They were on the third floor of the apartment complex, but J didn't have time to think about that. He opened the window and looked down, suddenly fearful. He swallowed his fear, and jumped.

The ground came faster than he expected. As he hit the cement, he heard a cracking sound. Well shoot. That can't be good. He looked down at his left foot, which was unnaturally bent to the side. The visual confirmation sent a sharp pain through his leg. He got up quickly, which was a mistake. Another round of needle-like agony filled his senses. He started limping down the street anyway, tears in the corner of his eyes.

He passed hobos, shop vendors, and drug addicts as he took the quietest route he could away from his apartment. His sleeves rolled back down, covering the mark. He couldn't think of anywhere or anyone that could help him. He was, in all likeness, a dead man. But he limped on anyway, gritting his teeth as he went. He was sure that his family would've called the authorities by now, and given the entire town his physical description. He put his hood up, and avoided all contact with anyone.

After walking aimlessly for about twenty minutes, J decided that it was pointless to run. If he wasn't killed, he would die of starvation, cold, or mugging. Nights in the streets of Verrin could be ruthless. Thugs roamed freely in the streets. Some had even made it their life's goal to find others with the mark. It was their only opportunity to kill legally, and they would do what it took to find anyone. He stopped in one of the more secluded alleyways, and sat down next to a dumpster. It smelled rank. He was too tired and achy to care in the slightest. He slowly drifted to sleep, wondering if he would wake up to see the sun.