What a Mess [Howard One-shot]
Well, this is the idea I decided to elaborate on for my school's national literacy assessment. The theme was "What a Mess!"; and as I pushed all the rather inappropriate thoughts out of my head, I resulted with this. So, here it is- written in fifty minutes flat, with no editing time- What A Mess.
WHAT A MESSWhat have you done, Dominic?
I sit, balled up in my little insignificant huddle in the far, dark corner of the room. My misty grey eyes are shut tight as contemplate what I have just done.
I begin to moan.
You’ve killed a man, Dominic James Howard. You killed a man, at only fifteen years of age. What mess have you got yourself into?
My father was killed on the 21st of August. I remember the day clearly; even though I was only eight at the time, I recall the events as if it was yesterday. The police called it murder; I, in my young, naive youth, called it “one big, misunderstood accident.” I thought this way for years- Mother would always tell my my father was safe, comfortable and watching us from above.
“But how can he watch us, Ma?” I would always ask.
“Because, Dominic, your Pa is special. He’s an angel.”
And the conversation would be left at that.
However, as I grew into adolescence, into those riotous years of teenage life, I realized my father’s death was not just “one big, misunderstood accident.” It was revealed that the police had tracked down Robert Howard’s killer, but had never found him; and that my patriarch was not murdered as a victim of chance, but as part of a intricate crime scheme. As the truth was slowly unravelled, my perfect little world was turned on its head, and I began to want cold-blooded revenge for the man who killed my father.
It was easy enough to orchestrate the attack; all I needed to do was research the police force’s old records and find the killer’s name and address, catch him alone in his apartment and pull back the trigger. I took days off school, telling my mother “I had contracted meningitis” just to spend time digging through police files. The name and address of the man in question was soon found, and Phase Two was soon initiated. I was motivated for the sole lust for this man’s blood and soul, longing for justice to be withheld; the desire for this man, this killer to be eradicated once and for all.
I bounded up the steps to the apartment, crashed open the door to the small room, took one look into the shocked man’s stone-hearted eyes and spun the barrel of the shotgun.
Bang.
Bang.
I run a blood-stained palm through my messy blonde hair, my whole body shaking with fear, with adrenaline. I didn’t wish to open my eyes, for I knew the scene that would lay before me; a limp, dark body, four bleak walls and a spray of glistening scarlet. My left hand dropped the empty gun, resonating off the cold floorboards with a clang; the symbol of the end of my avengeful spite.
You’ve killed a man, Dominic. You’ve gone and killed your father’s murderer. And now, you’ve only become a murderer yourself.
You’ve really got yourself into a mess now, haven’t you?
WHAT A MESSWhat have you done, Dominic?
I sit, balled up in my little insignificant huddle in the far, dark corner of the room. My misty grey eyes are shut tight as contemplate what I have just done.
I begin to moan.
You’ve killed a man, Dominic James Howard. You killed a man, at only fifteen years of age. What mess have you got yourself into?
My father was killed on the 21st of August. I remember the day clearly; even though I was only eight at the time, I recall the events as if it was yesterday. The police called it murder; I, in my young, naive youth, called it “one big, misunderstood accident.” I thought this way for years- Mother would always tell my my father was safe, comfortable and watching us from above.
“But how can he watch us, Ma?” I would always ask.
“Because, Dominic, your Pa is special. He’s an angel.”
And the conversation would be left at that.
However, as I grew into adolescence, into those riotous years of teenage life, I realized my father’s death was not just “one big, misunderstood accident.” It was revealed that the police had tracked down Robert Howard’s killer, but had never found him; and that my patriarch was not murdered as a victim of chance, but as part of a intricate crime scheme. As the truth was slowly unravelled, my perfect little world was turned on its head, and I began to want cold-blooded revenge for the man who killed my father.
It was easy enough to orchestrate the attack; all I needed to do was research the police force’s old records and find the killer’s name and address, catch him alone in his apartment and pull back the trigger. I took days off school, telling my mother “I had contracted meningitis” just to spend time digging through police files. The name and address of the man in question was soon found, and Phase Two was soon initiated. I was motivated for the sole lust for this man’s blood and soul, longing for justice to be withheld; the desire for this man, this killer to be eradicated once and for all.
I bounded up the steps to the apartment, crashed open the door to the small room, took one look into the shocked man’s stone-hearted eyes and spun the barrel of the shotgun.
Bang.
Bang.
I run a blood-stained palm through my messy blonde hair, my whole body shaking with fear, with adrenaline. I didn’t wish to open my eyes, for I knew the scene that would lay before me; a limp, dark body, four bleak walls and a spray of glistening scarlet. My left hand dropped the empty gun, resonating off the cold floorboards with a clang; the symbol of the end of my avengeful spite.
You’ve killed a man, Dominic. You’ve gone and killed your father’s murderer. And now, you’ve only become a murderer yourself.
You’ve really got yourself into a mess now, haven’t you?