Reverse Patricide

The end

Jonas's lungs visibly filled with air, his chest quickly rising and falling as his running feet finally came to a stop. His trembling hand, slick with sweat, slowly reached forward, all the while his gaze darting back and forth to spot innocent passers-by, and his rough, grimy fingers gripped the door handle as tightly as they could. Once he was certain the coast was clear, he twisted the handle and pushed through the air before him as if it were a genuine barrier. The door slammed behind him and he was left alone to collapse against its protection.

He sat on the floor with his head rested back against the wooden door and his eyes clenched shut. The only part of the room he was in that could make itself known to him was its scent. Cinnamon. Sticks of cinnamon had been scattered lightly around the surfaces of the room to cover any displeasing odors that might like to linger. The poor community they lived in wasn't famous for cleanliness so this wasn't an uncommon concept. Jonas had always hated the smell of cinnamon, but that day he breathed in deeply. His lungs, already on fire from the long run, burned instantly with the strong spice. It had proved too much for him and he leaned forward, hands pressed flat on the warm wood of the floors, coughing and gasping for fresh air.

When he had opened his eyes he saw the glint of the metal lantern in the corner, flickering from the activity outside. It was almost as if the room were smirking at him. Room-1. Jonas-0. Upon further inspection of the lantern, he could see that it wasn't necessarily twinkling from the outside lights, but more from the few embers that still had the will to burn inside. He slowly turned the cog on its side, and the wick rose from the pool of oil below it, catching on fire and lighting up the entire room.

Jonas's eyes first glanced over at the sticks of charcoal beside the lantern. He picked them up, rubbing the gritty black substance all over his fingers as he did. He had found these weeks ago, carving them into a pencil shape and giving them to his daughter as a gift. He gently set them down beside the loose sheets of paper that also occupied the top of the desk. The papers had browned from the years they'd been on this earth. They were also no exception to the humidity that pushed on this community day after day, and the warped appearance of them having been under water was blatant.

Jonas slowly turned and looked around the rest of the room. The tremors in his hand picked up the pace when his chocolate brown eyes scanned the area. His fingers twitched as if he had an itch somewhere on his body and couldn't figure out how to get rid of it. Sweat glistened all over his face, which was looking paler than usual. With each detail of the room he took in, the features on his face twisted more and more. His thick eyebrows furrowed together as they raised. His eyes squinted while they also opened wide. His nostrils flared and the bushiness of his beard couldn't hide the grimace his mouth was displaying underneath.

A warm, salty breeze suddenly slunk in from outside and prodded Jonas from the left. As he collapsed on to the floor, clutching his chest in his hand, his painful scream was swallowed up by the absorbent wood. The curtains that were made from many layers of moth-eaten netting were floating toward him, carried by the wind, almost looking as if it were reaching for his throat.

"You can't get me!" he shouted to the lifeless fabric. "Nothing in here can get me!"

The curtains gave one quick flick and then went still, as if they were "tsk tsk-ing" at what Jonas had just said. After that, he decided he'd had enough. As he quickly got to his feet he could feel the rough fabric of his shirt clinging to his skin with sweat. The shirt twisted and pulled with every move he made. His hands tugged at the shirt roughly and he quickly made his way to the door, his eyes to the floor, avoiding the sights of the remaining objects on the room. As his hand wrapped around the door handle, he paused. With one deep, shaky breath, he remembered what he had to do.

"I can do this," he whispered to himself.

He turned once more to face the delicate room of a teenage girl. It was a basic, square room. There was no closet, no hidden nooks, nowhere for someone to be hiding on him. The rough mattress, no more than 4 inches thick, lay directly on the floor. There were a few more loose sheets of paper tucked underneath and Jonas could see the corners of a few of them sticking out.

There were drawings hanging above her bed. This girl had a real talent. Most of the pictures showed horses running in the tall grass of an open field. Jonas noted that the pictures were quite accurate considering the girl had never seen a horse in her life. All she had to go off was the faded pictures of old, salvaged books. There were other drawings of her friends. The smiles and wide eyes looked so real to Jonas that he had to look away quickly. The memories had started to appear.

When the teenage girl was younger, she had glued real flowers all over her walls. What Jonas saw now was the decaying remains of that project, which just looked like random spots of brownish reds and purples. There were small bowls placed here and there with dirty water and dying flowers sitting in them. They had probably been beautiful when the water was crisp and fresh and the flowers still had some life in them, but now it carried an ominous feeling.

Jonas shook his head, his eyes twitching frantically. He remained standing in one place as his eyes quickly scanned the room, looking for a bag of some sort. There! Her black duffel bag, handed down by many others, which she had used when she was in school. He stomped over, snatched it up quickly, and brought it over to her scuffed up dresser. The drawers pulled out with some effort. Without paying much attention, Jonas grabbed at the articles of clothing scattered inside. It didn't matter if they were folded. No one would see them. He made sure all of the drawers were completely empty, and then didn't even bother to close the drawers.

His eyes glanced over once more at the desk, and he decided he'd better pack up the paper and charcoal pencils as well.

"That should be enough."

As he headed for the door one last time, he tripped slightly over asmall pair of shoes. Was she really not wearing those? Did she leave this worldwith cold, bare feet? His eyes began to sting as salty tears pushed for thesurface. With one hand holding the duffel bag, his free arm raised to wipe awaythose nasty bits of evidence that he had emotions. He must maintain the facadethat he can take on any enemy who comes his way with ease. When his arm clearedout of his view, his eyes caught sight of one more thing. One small....hugething. A picture. A drawing. Glued to the back of the door. It was of Jonas.Jonas was holding a small child, a little girl...his little girl... and coming outof his back were the soft white wings of angels.