He

• Laura Hibbins-Leece, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2007

In a dark room, somewhere in London a little boy was screaming, a young woman was dying and a tall dark man was gloating.
The rain was pattering on the window and the television set was turned up loud, trying to block out the screams from a little boy and his mother…
“Please. Please, don’t hurt him.” She pleads. He sneered and kicks her, hard in the stomach. She cries out involuntary.
“May God have mercy on your soul!” She spat.
He had had enough.
“To hell with God!” He pulled the revolver from its holster and pushed the safety catch to off.
“Mother!”
“Jamison, please, close your eyes.” She groaned however she could see that he had no intention of letting this rest. He was a determined little boy and very mature for his age. A surge of pride rushed through her, she smiled.
The assassin pulled back in the trigger.
“No,” the word escaped the boy’s lips as the gun fired. The acrid smell of gun powder filled the air. The woman crumpled to the ground, clutching her stomach. The boy ran to his mother’s side. He wrapped his small arms around her body.
“Mummy,” he howled.
The assassin came stealthy up behind him, pinning his arms to his body he picked him up.
He screamed.
“I want my mother! Give me back my mother!”
“Or what?” Sneered the assassin.
The little boy kicked his legs and threw himself around, making it hard for the assassin to grab him. He did everything in his power to stop his leaving.
“Mum. I love you.” The boy whispered. The assassin took the opportunity to stuff the gag in the boy’s mouth. He tried to spit it out but it had already been taped firmly in place. The boy doubled his efforts to escape. Kicking and punching the assassin, trying to scream. The assassin rolled his eyes; he was beginning to tire of the boys antics. If only he didn’t have to keep him alive but remembering the words of his instructor, sent a shiver down his spine. The assassin had to put a stop to it before he lost control.
“Look,” he spat. Trying to find what to say next. “If you wanna end up like that thing over there, keep it up.” The boy was mortified. That ‘thing’ was his mother, a loving woman, someone who had cared for him and looked out for him. Not a common piece of street trash.
“She is not a thing.” He said indignantly, the gag making it near impossible to understand him. The assassin shook his head
“Don’t you get it?” He smirked. “Keep it up and your d-e-a-d, it spells dead.”
The boy fell silent, not a whimper escaped his lips. Instead he closed his eyes and prayed. Hoping that someone, anyone would hear his silent plea for help.