11-year-old Hank Barnett kills his father
In his bed, his ears uncovered momentarily to see if it was safe, Hank heard and a sudden wave of rage swept through him. He couldn't listen to it any more, he had to do something. He got out of bed, feeling like someone else, and walked on down the hall to the room where his father was.
Looking into the bedroom, Hank saw his father kneeling over his mother, straddling her. He had her wrists grasped roughly in his hands, as she writhed on the floor, her face bloody and her nightgown torn. Urval's broad white hairy back was toward him and Rebecca's eyes widened when she saw him at the door. Her glance flicked to the shears lying on the table, and without thinking much about it, Hank picked them up and approached his father from behind. Urval still didn't realize he was there. Hank gazed into his Mother's eyes, and she looked back at him lovingly.
Urval cursed and pinned one of his wife's wrists to the floor with his knee and slapped her with his free hand. Hank grimaced, closed his eyes, and stabbed his father in the back. The cold metal slid easily into the sweaty flesh, passed between the ribs, and punctured a lung. Thunder crashed outside and Hank jumped back, leaving the shears buried to the handle in his father, and opened his eyes. It took a moment for blood to appear at the wound. Urval roared, stiffened, and turned, a surprised look on his face. His mouth opened to say something but no words came out, just a small trickle of blood.
Hank watched the blood curiously as it dribbled down his father's unshaven chin.
Urval stood up, swaying, coughing, choking on his own blood. He looked questioningly at his son, his mouth working, and he twisted around and tried to reach the shears. Then he toppled over and crashed to the floor. The house shook. He twitched once or twice, groaned, and then was still. Urval Barnett was dead.
Hank stood staring numbly at his father's corpse.
Rebecca got to her feet, gathering her gown around her and looked down at her dead husband. She touched her bruised cheek gingerly and dabbed at her bloody lip with a handkerchief from the overturned nightstand. She felt no horror at the situation, just relief that he was gone. She had never had any real feeling for the man. He had just been something in life to put up with.
Hank was horrified by what he had done. His father lay there in front of him in his torn red underwear, bleeding all over the clean floor, staining the new rug they had bought in Monroe last summer. His mother would be unhappy about that.
His stomach felt queasy, and he almost wet his pajamas. He looked fearfully up at his mother, so strong and beautiful, in her nightgown with her long hair loose around her shoulders. He saw that her cheek was bruised and that her lip was bleeding and he was suddenly glad that he had come to her rescue. He felt like her knight in shining armor.
She smiled at him and he went to her. She hugged him warmly and kissed him on the mouth. Hank tasted the salty tang of her blood.
"My little man," she cooed, smoothing his hair, squeezing his small cold trembling body tightly to her hot body. "Come to rescue his Mama."
Hank stopped trembling as his mother held him, petting him. He nestled his head in her breast. Maybe he had done right, after all. Rebecca sighed and kissed her son, running her hands over his small body. Hank was confused, and he felt his body responding to his mother's caresses.
"You saved me, darling," she said softly. "You saved me from that evil man."
"I love you, Hank."
"I love you, too Mama."
Then they lay down together on the four poster bed while the storm raged outside.
The Tip Jug
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I wrote some books all by myself that you might be interested in if you like country music, steel guitar, the 60's and/or mysteries.
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A musician procedural. What it's like to be on tour through Texas with a murderous White Supremacist on your trail.
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Hot Rods, girls, music and murder from 1963. More at Chevy Summer.
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