just put that motherfucker out of its misery!”
The boy's stepfather laughed at his own crude joke.
As his stepfather's laughter echoed ominously through his head, the boy slid out of bed. Careful not to wake his gently snoring baby sisters, he slipped into a T-shirt and pulled a pair of well-worn
Patrick Ewing sneakers onto his feet. His jogging pants made a slight rustle as he left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen. As he darkened the doorway of the kitchen his mother looked up at him. Across the table from her, his stepfather stared at him with a smug look on his face. His .38 revolver was on the kitchen counter.
“Go back to bed, Shawn,” his mother said.
He ignored her as he pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the back porch. After his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he spotted the still form of his dog lying in the grass. He walked down the stairs and over to his furry friend. There were three immediately noticeable bullet wounds in his dog. Blood pumped furiously from the bullet holes. His friend was still breathing, shallow and labored, but breathing nonetheless. Tears began to crowd up in the boy's eyes. As he knelt on the grass, slick with his dog's blood, the floodgates to his soul opened up at seeing his friend in death's vestibule.
The dog recognized its master and began to whimper. The boy lifted the shepherd's head into his lap. Its pink tongue lapped desperately at the boy's face. A shudder passed through the dog's fur—it couldn't fend off the arctic temperature of death. The whimper subsided and her tongue ceased caressing the boy's face.
Using the back of his hand the boy wiped his face of the tears. By doing so he smeared the dog's blood onto his countenance. Gently he removed the dog's head from his lap. He climbed to his feet and walked into the garage. Amid brooms, rakes, and a snow shovel he found a large spade. In the middle of the yard the boy dug a grave. The tears streaming from his eyes turned the dirt and dog's blood on his face into a gruesome concoction.
Finally he was satisfied with the depth of the hole and climbed out of it. He knelt by his dog and scooped its limp body into his arms. The dog's head lolled to the side; the tongue escaped from between her frozen fangs. Gently he placed the dog in the grave. For a moment he stood on the lip of the open grave with his head bowed as he whis pered a silent prayer for his friend. Unceremoniously he began to fill in the grave. When all of the displaced dirt covered his friend, he
packed the dirt down with the back of the spade. Methodically he retraced his steps to the garage and returned the spade. He removed a tire iron from the hood of his stepfather's ruined hulk of an auto mobile. With meaningful strides he crossed the backyard and climbed the porch stairs. On the porch he paused and peeked through the screen door.
His stepfather was alone at the kitchen table. A dingy white T-shirt splattered with blood was crumpled on the linoleum floor. He was slumped down in the wooden chair, his chest and beer belly heaving as he snored.
The boy eased the screen door open, hoping that he wouldn't hear the telltale squeak of its old spring. Using his free hand he guided the screen door closed. Silently he stole across the floor and picked up his stepfather's pistol from the kitchen counter. Noiselessly he slid the pistol into his pocket. Spinning on his heels, the boy turned and walked until he was standing directly in front of his snoring stepfather.
“Wake up,” the boy whispered harshly.
At the sound of the boy's voice, his stepfather awakened from his drunken slumber. He sat up straight in his chair trying to focus his sleep-logged red eyes. When the boy, covered in blood and dirt and clutching the tire iron, came into focus in front of him, his stepfather's eyes almost bugged out of his head. Terror shone in his eyes, through the inflammation lent by the alcohol. He looked at the boy's face and what he found there wasn't
The boy's stepfather laughed at his own crude joke.
As his stepfather's laughter echoed ominously through his head, the boy slid out of bed. Careful not to wake his gently snoring baby sisters, he slipped into a T-shirt and pulled a pair of well-worn
Patrick Ewing sneakers onto his feet. His jogging pants made a slight rustle as he left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen. As he darkened the doorway of the kitchen his mother looked up at him. Across the table from her, his stepfather stared at him with a smug look on his face. His .38 revolver was on the kitchen counter.
“Go back to bed, Shawn,” his mother said.
He ignored her as he pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the back porch. After his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he spotted the still form of his dog lying in the grass. He walked down the stairs and over to his furry friend. There were three immediately noticeable bullet wounds in his dog. Blood pumped furiously from the bullet holes. His friend was still breathing, shallow and labored, but breathing nonetheless. Tears began to crowd up in the boy's eyes. As he knelt on the grass, slick with his dog's blood, the floodgates to his soul opened up at seeing his friend in death's vestibule.
The dog recognized its master and began to whimper. The boy lifted the shepherd's head into his lap. Its pink tongue lapped desperately at the boy's face. A shudder passed through the dog's fur—it couldn't fend off the arctic temperature of death. The whimper subsided and her tongue ceased caressing the boy's face.
Using the back of his hand the boy wiped his face of the tears. By doing so he smeared the dog's blood onto his countenance. Gently he removed the dog's head from his lap. He climbed to his feet and walked into the garage. Amid brooms, rakes, and a snow shovel he found a large spade. In the middle of the yard the boy dug a grave. The tears streaming from his eyes turned the dirt and dog's blood on his face into a gruesome concoction.
Finally he was satisfied with the depth of the hole and climbed out of it. He knelt by his dog and scooped its limp body into his arms. The dog's head lolled to the side; the tongue escaped from between her frozen fangs. Gently he placed the dog in the grave. For a moment he stood on the lip of the open grave with his head bowed as he whis pered a silent prayer for his friend. Unceremoniously he began to fill in the grave. When all of the displaced dirt covered his friend, he
packed the dirt down with the back of the spade. Methodically he retraced his steps to the garage and returned the spade. He removed a tire iron from the hood of his stepfather's ruined hulk of an auto mobile. With meaningful strides he crossed the backyard and climbed the porch stairs. On the porch he paused and peeked through the screen door.
His stepfather was alone at the kitchen table. A dingy white T-shirt splattered with blood was crumpled on the linoleum floor. He was slumped down in the wooden chair, his chest and beer belly heaving as he snored.
The boy eased the screen door open, hoping that he wouldn't hear the telltale squeak of its old spring. Using his free hand he guided the screen door closed. Silently he stole across the floor and picked up his stepfather's pistol from the kitchen counter. Noiselessly he slid the pistol into his pocket. Spinning on his heels, the boy turned and walked until he was standing directly in front of his snoring stepfather.
“Wake up,” the boy whispered harshly.
At the sound of the boy's voice, his stepfather awakened from his drunken slumber. He sat up straight in his chair trying to focus his sleep-logged red eyes. When the boy, covered in blood and dirt and clutching the tire iron, came into focus in front of him, his stepfather's eyes almost bugged out of his head. Terror shone in his eyes, through the inflammation lent by the alcohol. He looked at the boy's face and what he found there wasn't
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