Merciless
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Mercy Shaw was nine when she was given her first gun. It was a present from her father. “Happy Birthday.” He murmured, pressing the cool metal into her hand. “Be very careful Mercy.” He warned. “This is a very dangerous weapon. It can kill people.”
“Why do I need it?” Mercy asked quietly, staring at the heavy black handgun that weighed down her palm. She had seen her father wield an identical weapon many times. Never did she believe she herself would brandish one.
“You will join the Resolution one day. And you will fight for us.” Mercy’s eyes shot straight up into her father’s hard stony gaze.
“I don’t want to hurt anybody.” Mercy said with anguish. “I don’t want to fight.”
“You have to. Everyone must.” The gun suddenly felt heavy in Mercy’s palm. She gripped it tightly to keep it from slipping from her grasp
“But why?” Mercy asked with an edge in her voice.
“Freedom is a very precious commodity. One that is not readily available at the moment. In order for the people to gain it back, people must fight. Not everyone has the means to, though. You will have to do the fighting for people who cannot fight for themselves.” His hazel eyes searched hers as his fingers tugged through her hair. “Do you understand, flower?”
“I don’t want to.” Mercy said definitively after a few moments of silence. She scowled fiercely at her shoes.
“You must.” He said forcefully, turning her head up to him. “You have to fight, just like I do.”
“Papa, just because you fight does not mean I will.” Mercy spat. She tossed the gun at her father’s feet and stomped off to her room.
Months later, Mercy found herself standing in the doorway of her father’s room for what would be the last time. She scanned his room. It was bare. Citizens were not supposed to have keepsakes. It implied attachment to their possessions. Mercy knew, though, there were pictures her father had kept hidden, love that he tucked away into the furthest nooks and crannies. She stepped into the room with hesitance, as if he would return from the grave and scold her for stepping foot in his room. But it was just another bedroom, filled with dust and the smell of decay. Mercy’s finger’s traveled along his dresser. The chestnut color glowed, even in the dim light. She idled a moment before pulling open the first drawer. Mercy rifled through clothes, but found nothing. The same went for the other six drawers. No hidden compartment. No personal belongings. Mercy let out a sigh of frustration and dropped to her knees. There was a hollow thunk that came from the floorboard beneath her. Mercy observed the board and saw the light scratches that adorned the edges.
It took a bit of working, but she managed to pry the floorboard up. Mercy reached into the hidey-hole and pulled out a conglomerate of pictures. Slowly, she flipped through them. All the pictures were of her father with some unknown woman. Mercy assumed it to be her mother. Her father had told Mercy that her mom had died bringing Mercy into the world. He had always sounded particularly tragic about it, but the words didn’t sound right in his mouth. After looking through the pictures, Mercy stuffed them all in her pocket.
She had to fit her whole arm in the compartment to reach the bottom. Mercy groped around and her fingers skimmed a frigid metal object. She wrapped her hand around it and pulled it up. It was the gun her father had acquired for her on her birthday. Mercy examined the shining black metal a bit more closely. There was a rough engraving scratched into the hilt of the gun.
Merciless.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Mercy stuffed the gun in the back of her shorts. She peered into the hidden space once more before dropping the floorboard back in place. Mercy stood up and took one last look around her father’s room. She left before she could muster the urge to cry.
“Why do I need it?” Mercy asked quietly, staring at the heavy black handgun that weighed down her palm. She had seen her father wield an identical weapon many times. Never did she believe she herself would brandish one.
“You will join the Resolution one day. And you will fight for us.” Mercy’s eyes shot straight up into her father’s hard stony gaze.
“I don’t want to hurt anybody.” Mercy said with anguish. “I don’t want to fight.”
“You have to. Everyone must.” The gun suddenly felt heavy in Mercy’s palm. She gripped it tightly to keep it from slipping from her grasp
“But why?” Mercy asked with an edge in her voice.
“Freedom is a very precious commodity. One that is not readily available at the moment. In order for the people to gain it back, people must fight. Not everyone has the means to, though. You will have to do the fighting for people who cannot fight for themselves.” His hazel eyes searched hers as his fingers tugged through her hair. “Do you understand, flower?”
“I don’t want to.” Mercy said definitively after a few moments of silence. She scowled fiercely at her shoes.
“You must.” He said forcefully, turning her head up to him. “You have to fight, just like I do.”
“Papa, just because you fight does not mean I will.” Mercy spat. She tossed the gun at her father’s feet and stomped off to her room.
Months later, Mercy found herself standing in the doorway of her father’s room for what would be the last time. She scanned his room. It was bare. Citizens were not supposed to have keepsakes. It implied attachment to their possessions. Mercy knew, though, there were pictures her father had kept hidden, love that he tucked away into the furthest nooks and crannies. She stepped into the room with hesitance, as if he would return from the grave and scold her for stepping foot in his room. But it was just another bedroom, filled with dust and the smell of decay. Mercy’s finger’s traveled along his dresser. The chestnut color glowed, even in the dim light. She idled a moment before pulling open the first drawer. Mercy rifled through clothes, but found nothing. The same went for the other six drawers. No hidden compartment. No personal belongings. Mercy let out a sigh of frustration and dropped to her knees. There was a hollow thunk that came from the floorboard beneath her. Mercy observed the board and saw the light scratches that adorned the edges.
It took a bit of working, but she managed to pry the floorboard up. Mercy reached into the hidey-hole and pulled out a conglomerate of pictures. Slowly, she flipped through them. All the pictures were of her father with some unknown woman. Mercy assumed it to be her mother. Her father had told Mercy that her mom had died bringing Mercy into the world. He had always sounded particularly tragic about it, but the words didn’t sound right in his mouth. After looking through the pictures, Mercy stuffed them all in her pocket.
She had to fit her whole arm in the compartment to reach the bottom. Mercy groped around and her fingers skimmed a frigid metal object. She wrapped her hand around it and pulled it up. It was the gun her father had acquired for her on her birthday. Mercy examined the shining black metal a bit more closely. There was a rough engraving scratched into the hilt of the gun.
Merciless.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Mercy stuffed the gun in the back of her shorts. She peered into the hidden space once more before dropping the floorboard back in place. Mercy stood up and took one last look around her father’s room. She left before she could muster the urge to cry.