The Blood On My Hands

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Thrillers  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story, lots of things are implied (will be finished) about loss and secrets.

Submitted: July 06, 2017

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Submitted: July 06, 2017



Watching a late program of mindlessness telly, I hear the ‘pitter patter’ of tiny feet. I smile to myself, more like a flashing of teeth then a smile as I curl my fingers firmly around the trigger. I hear the subtle and rapid breathing enter the room, like a gentle breeze, it is coming from just behind the grand-farther clock.  The trigger fells heavy against the weight of my fingers, as I hold on tightly knowing I never miss. Flicking my right leg up in a swift and silent movement I point the pistol at the figure and loudly whisper “Bang, Bang!” My little son, my pride, my joy, clutches his heart, fumbling around falls with a small thud to the floor and vibrates lightly. I sigh with enjoyment at his vivid imagination, and dramatic acting skills. He jumps up and grin’s at me, showing his one big tooth among the little ones that occupy his mouth, he sprints around the sofa and jumps aloof to join me and cuddles up close, I lay the blanket around us both and sit him up to see his delicate and young face.  “Why are you not in bed Harry?” I ask gently, knowing he is normally a good sleeper, always telling me the morning after of his dreams in a big red fire truck, like the ones that consume his red sleepwear. He squints up at me, sleepy dust can be vividly seen and whimpers; “I’m scared, I need a story.” His face always perks up at the thought of a story, I nod my approval and the succulent grin returns to his face once again. Shuffling of the sofa, I carry him up the stairs and into his room.


His windows were open though they never should, I give Harry a pointed look, he looks up at me and whispers, “It wasn’t me”, it clearly was, but I shall not argue. The thundering rain and treacherous winds were ripping apart the window ledge, executing it almost.  The windows are violently slamming against the walls, making dents and hurting the paint. I shut them forcefully, they had power and strength tonight, normally I could shut them without a trace of thought, but not this night.  I close the blue curtains and turn to see my little one sitting crossed legged in his bed, wearing blue sleepwear with ducks on it. Strange, he must have changed for some reason; however I dismiss the thoughts as it pleases me to see my son, being a child. He handed my his toy race car and said, “Can you fix my car please mummy?” I smile, and take it from him gently, taking of the roof of the car and examining inside I can tell it was not going to be easy. I tinker to the left and to the right, move a few springs and still nothing. Harry begins to look disheartened and I’d hate for that to be so, I look at him with a twinkle in my eye and proclaim, “Let me go get my screwdriver.” I leave and climb the steps to the attic. Harry isn’t allowed in the attic, I’d like for him to think his mum is good, and I damn sure am trying, before he discovers the truth and hates me for it, for all eternity I fear. Walking past computers, with programs set up, for hacking and research and that sort thing, I walk past a desk piled high with books still you could wonder if there was even a desk there at all. I reach the 5th desk on the right hand side and put the car down, luckily I had brought him a spare and I’d just have to find it. Searching in all my draws on that desk, I find the box were it was living. I unscrew them both and exchange batteries. I then notice I’ve had an email come through on the personal line as my laptop is flashing green. I begin to panic, only one person has my email on that line. Waking it from its peaceful slumber I turn on the computer and by-pass all the security to see an email from Cain Hammel, my blood starts to boil as I decipher the code we use.


Only a few minutes later the results are clear and it reads:

“I’m sorry Aileen for this email, but you and your son are in danger, he knows where you are and is coming to bring you home, I understand you’re not ready for this to happen but he owns you. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop him, either surrender or kill him, you have my blessing not that you really need it. You are a free woman now. The choice is yours. Also I have heard rumours he has been in the area for several weeks now, he most certainly knows where you are. Run.



I leave the toy and rush downstairs to see that my son is still awake, and still in blue. I calmly smile and say “the car will be better in the morning.” The room seems to be colder and darker, Harry looks at me, eyes full of fright and softly says, “Mummy, there’s someone under my bed!” Oh no. Thoughts of him spin around my head as I look under the bed, a hand on my gun tucked into the back on my jeans.


Peeking under the bed, more in fear then in anger, I see nothing. Nothing but the stillness and emptiness of the dark. Suddenly a little mouse scuttles out at great speeds towards me, squeaking away to its self, in a rather panicked tone. Odd. I wonder if it was screaming in fear or perhaps it was warning me? I hope not. I stand up, still looking at where the mouse had been before gazing at my son, smiling. The smile quickly turned into confusion, which turned into fear, which turned into anger, which grew into pain. My poor innocent baby was lying there, still warm from the once life that had occupied his body. His head removed and a knife shattered through his chest, the pure look of fear still plastered on his face, in his eyes. I broke down, my head spinning with pain and anger. Frantically I glanced around the room looking for what could have possibly done this to him. Then I saw him…


Standing in the doorway. The build of a rugby player, yet the gracefulness of a dancer. Just like I am still now, though I doubt he fears me. I know he is looking at me, though I see no eyes, there are no eyes, but I know he is looking at me because I can feel it. I am not afraid of him anymore. He takes a threatening step, and I whip the gun out of my jeans and fire, shooting him square in the head, a single critical hit that propels him down quickly and with little resistance. I wonder if he thought I’d lost my touch being retired for four years, but no, never. What I did isn’t something you can so easily forget, believe me I have tried.  I walk over to his body, bleeding on my sons’ bedroom carpet. My recently deceased son! As pain turns into anger, I shoot him a few more times for a bit of anger management. I walk back over to my baby boy, my pride, my joy and force his eyes close gently, I kiss his forehead and whisper: “Mummy loves you, you’re in a better place now. Sweet dreams.” Walking away I visit the attic and open the locked trunk with the key around my neck and collect the ‘emergency action bag’ I guess I always knew it wasn’t the end four years ago.


The hidden world will know what happened here this night. They will know how Rowan died, killing his own son and attempting to kill his ex-wife most likely for money. More importantly how it backfired. As I begin to drag his body outside for dismembering, I give the moon a devilish and defiant grin. Looks like I’m going to being playing the game for a little longer. First things first I’ll need to go underground and find somewhere to stay since I can’t stay here, Rowan’s blood from his left arm that I’m sawing off splatters my face and I grin, I really have missed this and yet, I wonder if they know what happens, when they mess with an assassin Queen? 

© Copyright 2019 Ann Morse. All rights reserved.

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