The Truth

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

My name is Pipsin and I was just executed. I was given one chance to retell my story. I'm not going to tell you a story of bullshit. I'm going to tell you the truth.

I am going to tell you a story. It’s not going to be a story of love or hope or new life or any of that bullshit. I’m going to tell you a story of death and mayhem, a story of destruction and war. I am going to tell you the story of my life before it fades into the woven web of lies that exists among our history textbooks.

My name is Pipsin. My name is Ulysses H. Pipsin and I was fourteen when I was executed. I’ve got to tell my story fast before it slips from my grasp and falls into an abyss I can’t see, but I know that is there.

The first thing I remember is my boots scraping the concrete. The concrete was in serious disrepair, the first sign of the slums. Small projectiles of it always dredged up behind my feet when I came this way to the bakery. However there were always less officers if I risked tripping over the street and fewer officers meant less trouble for the slum boy.

A rich man rode a shining white horse through the street. It had chrome plating on the saddle and white gold blinders. Silver chains hung from its bit as decorum. I jumped out of the way of the glowing beacon. They wouldn’t think twice to run me over. In fact, they would probably complain that my blood had stained the horse’s hide.

I sat against the brick building, waiting for the rich family riding similar regal horses to pass me by. Those snobby rich kids in their jeans and preppy shirts just waiting for their next victim. What I wouldn’t give to stain their own horses with the crimson colors of their own blood that had once streamed through their veins.

They passed and I grunted as I began trudging back towards the bakery. No other horses were in sight and I slipped into the back alleyway behind the shop. I could smell the bread cooking and could feel the heat of the flames warming the tips of my blond hair.

The baker was a plump and rich man who lived in the apartment above the bakery. He could afford to move but refused to leave his bakery unattended in such a bad part of the city. He should really be more concerned about his safety, as in someone coming in and murdering him, but rumor has it he carries a Glock 21 under his chef’s hat.

I perched myself behind the bakery. This was today’s target and failing meant I lost the ability to eat substantial food for almost a week. My brown eyes darted nervously from side to side to watch for oncoming traffic. If someone saw me it could be the end.

The back window of the bakery was broken and I knew it. I would try and slip in there and sneak a loaf or two off the cooling rack. Get in and get out without any other diversions or disputes.

I slipped in the broken window when the baker had run upstairs again. On the cooling rack were a loaf of rye bread, the most expensive, and a small bundle of walnut rolls. Without thinking I grabbed both and went to dart back out the dilapidated window again.

“Stop.” A deep, Italian voice said.

I wheeled around and was looking down the barrel of a Glock 21. The rumors were true. He obviously wasn’t afraid to murder a little slum boy in his kitchen when someone might hear. However horrifying the truth was that he would probably be cheered for ridding the world of another rat like me.

I hastily put the bread back on the cooling rack before gulping and looking up into the blazing eyes of the baker. He was twitching as his finger rested on the trigger.

I backed away very slowly and the chef turned around and reached for the com. He was calling guards.

I yelped and dove out the window. Gunshots rattled behind me as I ran the opposite direction from which I had come. It was foolish trying to target the bakery, why had I even tried? I had tried because I was desperate as all get out and now I was probably going to regret my hasty desperation with my life.

I raced down another backstreet, nearing the better parts of town. I was heading into a rough area for someone like me, but the alternative was far worse. I scampered under a fence and into the backyard of a white house. Red shutters lined the windows and dark navy shingles lined the roof.

Without taking a glance back, I banged on the sliding glass door, hoping for mercy. I nervously looked behind me and I could hear the pound of officer’s boots. I had limited time before they found me.

A boy of my age lazily came to the window. He looked like a deer in headlights when he saw the gaunt and scary boy I looked like. Then he paused and heard the shooting of the guns. He slid open the door and dragged me in by the edge of my jacket sleeve.

His presumable mother rushed downstairs to the see the commotion and found me scattered on the tile floor where the boy had pushed me down and out of sight. I was breathing heavily from running into their yard. The mother pulled the boy out into the small powder room and I could hear the quite nonsense of whispers.

All the sudden the back door blew in. The chef and five guards marched in, tracking black soot through the perfect white house. Every single one of them was carrying a gun, a gun that would probably be ending my life.

Two of the men dragged the mother and son out of the bathroom. He threw them on the floor and kicked the boy in the ribs as he curled up.

“Were you assisting him?” he demanded angrily.

“No!” the boy cried. The officer looked at him disapprovingly, took out his gun and pointed it straight at the boy’s head. I watched his convulsing finger pull the trigger and the boy fell limp, staining the perfect white floors.

I screeched a screech that I had never heard in my life. The boy was innocent; he had helped me even if he was denying it with his last breath. I jumped up and tackled the smug officer with one punch as I saw another younger man shoot the mother. Angry tears streamed down my face and I broke the officer’s nose. His face was unrecognizable by the time I was pulled off.

The ring of officers surrounded me. One mockingly dipped his thumb in their blood and made a cross on my forehead. The younger officer that shot the mother hit me in the back of the head with a nightstick and I fell to my knees, blood seeping out of my skull. I knew this was the end.

The chef made me uncurl from my position of pain and had me kneel before his shining black shoes. I felt the cold barrel of the gun against the back of my head. It cocked into place. I shut my eyes, took a deep breath, and received my quietus.

Submitted: May 27, 2014

© Copyright 2022 DaleyButtons. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:



why the love and hope you consider bullshit.

Tue, May 27th, 2014 3:42am


I don't consider it bullshit, the character does. In the setting that he [Pipsin] is set in, he doesn't want to tell you a candy floss story. It is essentially bullshit because it is not valued in the character's life.

Mon, May 26th, 2014 8:44pm


It's deep and captivating. You're an awesome storyteller.
Do you want to participate in a short story contest? Check out this- Viewers from all over the world. Chance to win $100. And there is no entry fee.

Tue, May 27th, 2014 11:53am


I actually did enter the contest, thank you!

Tue, May 27th, 2014 12:04pm


The new one which opened yesterday? Whats your entry link and name there?

Wed, May 28th, 2014 4:36am

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