The Murderer

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story revealing the feeling of revenge a son bore in his heart, meant only for the man who had killed his own father...

Submitted: September 05, 2008

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Submitted: September 05, 2008



Title: The murderer written by amira (5 Pure Science)
THUD! THUD! The thick wooden club hit upon the old merchant’s head. Blood oozed out of the cut on his bald head. Soon, there will be a pool of blood which will surely flood part of the small dark room. Already there were drops of blood which seeped in through the wooden floor and sank deep into the ground. I cried in a small voice, but I didn’t let it out, in case he may hear me. I kept still as I saw the man holding the club dragged the hard as a rock statue body and threw it into the creepy- looking hole.
I’ve heard the same noises before and I shivered every time. But, I certainly don’t dare to show it because… because I knew the man. In fact I knew him well. I saw what he did. It was terrible. What he did to my father was terrible.
I saw him once in a cold night, winter 1998. I was only 5 years old at that moment. And I never regretted that moment, because now I knew, I knew very well the look on that particular beastly man’s face. I saw him licked the salute of satisfaction out of himself. And that was the same feeling he savoured at the same night, at the same time, tonight.
I stand still. The savage- looking man spitted in the hole. Then, he reached out his hand, grabbed a dirty towel which had hung steadily near him. There was a sink near him as well and a half- broken mirror which lay on it. He wiped his face roughly. Still, there was at least a spot of blood he missed, among his bushy beard. How did I know? I just…knew. Because every time there was a flow of water running through the tap, a pink- coloured liquid will flew through the drainpipe next and ended up in the purified river behind this huge mansion.
He washed his face. As he splashed the water on his face, he let out a grunt. More like a growl to me. Then, he would take the broken mirror and touched his face, staring at his reflection at the very same time. I watched him repeating his nightly routine with deep hatred sprouting in my heart. I swallowed my grief and anger. I prayed hard to God so that He will soothe my unforgiving soul. I treasured my faith to Him.
I never fail to tell myself something. A phrase, a prayer to me. The same phrase that kept me alive for just another day, telling myself to breathe in peacefully, every day, every hour, every minute and every tormenting second. This phrase will stay deep within me, forever.
His eyes drifted around the small room. I crouched a little at the corner. I saw the faint glimpse of his figure disappeared behind the door. And a carpenter’s sound worked itself out tonight at the other side of the door.
I stretched my tight cramped muscles. Once again, I have to spend a few minutes telling myself to relax. I looked down at my legs. My left leg was bent to the inside a bit. I got that the same night I saw the assasination of my father. I have forgotten that I am just a human and not a machine that I ran so fast and twitched my left ankle when I arrived home. And that was the time that I just realized I had just escape from entering the gate of death. I kept glancing back to make sure that the man did not follow me. The next day, the whole village knew that my father was missing.
Nobody knew what had happened to the missing bodies. Some said they were dead, some claimed they saw the bodies but prove nothing. It was only Iwho had survived to tell the whole story.
I walked out of my hiding place; an old closet, half- limping half- treading on my right leg. Then, I wiped beads of sweat from my forehead with the back of palm. Seconds later, I made my way to the temporarily nailed door. My ears heard nothing at the other side. I am finally safe, for a moment.
I limped like a wounded soldier to one side of the wall. My hands tried to feel for a specific rough mark carved on them. It was I who carved the mark. Only the full moonlight guided my search. Suddenly, my fingers lay upon long and stretched lines carved deeply on the stony wall. My thin lips formed a crooked smile. I slipped my right hand in my worn- out trousers and brought out a piece of red coal. I knew the coal was red because in the day, when the bright sunlight dared to paint the room with yellow light, I would be able to see my fingertips lookedas ifthey had just been dipped in bloody- red paints.
On the wall were marks I have made to count the days. The time will come, sooner or later, when I will be able to pay the debts. The rising debts the man owed me. Not only for my father but for the dead corpses lyingstill in the pit hole. I swore to God this grievance will be paid with remorseful feeling of blood and anguish…

© Copyright 2018 amira. All rights reserved.

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