S P L I T
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“No,” Colby, an extremely scrawny -not the skinny and weak scrawny, more the ‘he couldn’t hurt a fly’ scrawny- looking kid says very sternly. More to himself than to the man he has pinned against the wall. The man, very aware of the boys conflicting thoughts, takes a slow breath, trying to ease the pain he feels from his broken nose and busted lip. “Please,” he tries begging, “I won’t tell anyone-” but the boy comes to attention, his eyes angry.
“Shut up!” he yells, applying more pressure to the knife he has held to the man’s neck. The man feels his heart leap, and he has the sudden urge to need to swallow. “Just shut up, okay.” The man stares at him, his eyes wide with fear. He doesn’t want to die. Not because he’s afraid to and not really because he thinks he has much to live for. Maybe several years ago he would have accepted this, taken it as a gift, but he has children now. Melony and Amanda. He can picture them, smiling and happy when he comes home. Will they never see him again?
Colby doesn’t want to kill him, really. He would like to release the man’s shirt, take his knife away from his throat, and walk away. But he can’t. He really, truly, can’t. He’s pleading with himself, telling himself to stop, that this man has done nothing that he deserves to die for.
“Please,” the man begins again, feeling the lump against his throat. “I have children,” he chokes out. “Please.”
“I’m trying to think!” the boy yells, “Shut up, won’t ya?” But his mind begins to shake. Children? How could he kill a man who has children? He stares at him for a moment, slowly removing the knife. “Children?”
“Yeah,” the man says in relief. “Melony and Amanda.”
“Melony and Amanda,” he repeats aloud, “how old?”
“Melony,” the man pauses, trying to even out his voice, “she’s just turned four. And Amanda,” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat, “Amanda is 18 months.” Colby’s fist loosens, and he hesitates on his feet. But something inside him shifts, and he’s watching through his eyes as he moves closer the man, pushing the knife back against his throat.
“Then they won’t remember you, right?”
“No, please,” the man whispers, tears mixing with the blood on his face. But it’s too late for him. And Colby drops his shirt, backing away as the man falls over, blood spilling from his throat. After a few minutes of shock, Colby calms himself, picks the man up, holding his arm around his shoulders, and drags him to his car.
Colby holds the picture in his hand, wondering if the man was thinking about these girls when he died, wondering how much they would cry, wondering if they’d even understand. Daddy left. Daddy never came home. Nobody knows where daddy went. He sighs, flicking his cigarette into the metal can, watching the flames rise as smoke leaks from his nose. He pockets the picture, walking back to his car to put away the kerosene and grab his last cigarette. He paces for awhile, and eventually climbs into his car and falls asleep with his forehead against the steering wheel.
“Shut up!” he yells, applying more pressure to the knife he has held to the man’s neck. The man feels his heart leap, and he has the sudden urge to need to swallow. “Just shut up, okay.” The man stares at him, his eyes wide with fear. He doesn’t want to die. Not because he’s afraid to and not really because he thinks he has much to live for. Maybe several years ago he would have accepted this, taken it as a gift, but he has children now. Melony and Amanda. He can picture them, smiling and happy when he comes home. Will they never see him again?
Colby doesn’t want to kill him, really. He would like to release the man’s shirt, take his knife away from his throat, and walk away. But he can’t. He really, truly, can’t. He’s pleading with himself, telling himself to stop, that this man has done nothing that he deserves to die for.
“Please,” the man begins again, feeling the lump against his throat. “I have children,” he chokes out. “Please.”
“I’m trying to think!” the boy yells, “Shut up, won’t ya?” But his mind begins to shake. Children? How could he kill a man who has children? He stares at him for a moment, slowly removing the knife. “Children?”
“Yeah,” the man says in relief. “Melony and Amanda.”
“Melony and Amanda,” he repeats aloud, “how old?”
“Melony,” the man pauses, trying to even out his voice, “she’s just turned four. And Amanda,” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat, “Amanda is 18 months.” Colby’s fist loosens, and he hesitates on his feet. But something inside him shifts, and he’s watching through his eyes as he moves closer the man, pushing the knife back against his throat.
“Then they won’t remember you, right?”
“No, please,” the man whispers, tears mixing with the blood on his face. But it’s too late for him. And Colby drops his shirt, backing away as the man falls over, blood spilling from his throat. After a few minutes of shock, Colby calms himself, picks the man up, holding his arm around his shoulders, and drags him to his car.
Colby holds the picture in his hand, wondering if the man was thinking about these girls when he died, wondering how much they would cry, wondering if they’d even understand. Daddy left. Daddy never came home. Nobody knows where daddy went. He sighs, flicking his cigarette into the metal can, watching the flames rise as smoke leaks from his nose. He pockets the picture, walking back to his car to put away the kerosene and grab his last cigarette. He paces for awhile, and eventually climbs into his car and falls asleep with his forehead against the steering wheel.