The Weak Never Survive
The Weak Never Survive
A gun shot rang and the crow contorted before loosely falling onto the set in stone gravel and making a slight clunking noise. The man, barely gripping the pistol, trotted contently over to the dead bird and flipped it onto its back with the barrel of the gun. He motioned to a small boy to come over with a wave his arm. The kid walked as fast as if life depended on it.
The man extended his arm towards the bird, but continued to look at the boy. “See that son?” The child nodded. “He was weak, the weak never survive.” The kid was not squeamish of the gun or his father’s terrible words. The only sound that ever made him cringe was the sound of the gun firing.
The father slapped a smirk on his face and the pointed the gun towards the child’s head. “Are you weak Xavier?” He made no movements and did not open his mouth to speak. The father pointed the gun down and patted the son’s head. “You are the meaning of weak, of useless, of defenseless.” The boy shook his head an opened his mouth only to be interrupted father. “You’ll understand in time, son.” How did his father know his question?
He left the bird to decay and took several long strides towards a small, recluse cabin. Xavier followed his father like a servant boy. He truly believed his father was teaching him a lesson, as he did every time his father threatened his life or called him weak. Xavier believed it with proof. The last time his father had called someone weak, he’d shot Xavier’s brother. A simple, clean shot through the head. Xavier was assigned the job of getting rid of his own brother’s body. He did not shed a single tear for his brother, for he was raised to frown upon sorrow. Once they’re dead, they’re dead and that was the end of it.
A few years later Xavier had his own house. He kept a loving wife and three children. He was of well age and went to visit his father occasionally. Xavier never ended thinking about his father’s words. Always “The weak never survive” replayed in his head. It had taken him a good twenty years to contemplate the meaning of what he’d said. How was he weak? He never cried when his father had put the gun to him, he never pleaded when he had a knife to his throat. He’d drive himself crazy searching for the answer.
One night Xavier felt powerful. He was going to visit his father. Give him a piece of mind about how much trouble he’d put him through. He drove, gathering all his angry thoughts in his mind ready to explode them in his father’s face. All of his threats, everything he’d done to him. Payback, now. Just a few screams, nothing more, just blow up in his face. He pulled into the driveway and parked the car. He threw the door open and found his father flipping the remote of channels, still figuring out how to work the new TV. Hearing the door open, his father glanced at him.
An idea struck Xavier. He should be punished with more than just letting out steam, right? He stepped in a few and slid the glass door of the gun case open, not bothering to close the front door. He took out the same gun that killed his brother and pointed it to the exact same spot on his father’s head.
He finally understood the difference between weak and strong. He finally knew what was going to happen. Xavier released the trigger and flashed all the memories through his head. His brother, the crow, all the sounds of a bullet. Every sound that was the only sound that made him cringe. The only sound that ever made him… weak.
Xavier looked at his chest, feeling a searing pain. He’d been shot. He fell dead of the floor after shooting one last glance at his father.
His father clicked his tongue and set the gun to rest on the side table. He spoke to the dead body, “I told you once Xavier and I’ll tell you again. You’re weak. The weak never survive.”
The man extended his arm towards the bird, but continued to look at the boy. “See that son?” The child nodded. “He was weak, the weak never survive.” The kid was not squeamish of the gun or his father’s terrible words. The only sound that ever made him cringe was the sound of the gun firing.
The father slapped a smirk on his face and the pointed the gun towards the child’s head. “Are you weak Xavier?” He made no movements and did not open his mouth to speak. The father pointed the gun down and patted the son’s head. “You are the meaning of weak, of useless, of defenseless.” The boy shook his head an opened his mouth only to be interrupted father. “You’ll understand in time, son.” How did his father know his question?
He left the bird to decay and took several long strides towards a small, recluse cabin. Xavier followed his father like a servant boy. He truly believed his father was teaching him a lesson, as he did every time his father threatened his life or called him weak. Xavier believed it with proof. The last time his father had called someone weak, he’d shot Xavier’s brother. A simple, clean shot through the head. Xavier was assigned the job of getting rid of his own brother’s body. He did not shed a single tear for his brother, for he was raised to frown upon sorrow. Once they’re dead, they’re dead and that was the end of it.
A few years later Xavier had his own house. He kept a loving wife and three children. He was of well age and went to visit his father occasionally. Xavier never ended thinking about his father’s words. Always “The weak never survive” replayed in his head. It had taken him a good twenty years to contemplate the meaning of what he’d said. How was he weak? He never cried when his father had put the gun to him, he never pleaded when he had a knife to his throat. He’d drive himself crazy searching for the answer.
One night Xavier felt powerful. He was going to visit his father. Give him a piece of mind about how much trouble he’d put him through. He drove, gathering all his angry thoughts in his mind ready to explode them in his father’s face. All of his threats, everything he’d done to him. Payback, now. Just a few screams, nothing more, just blow up in his face. He pulled into the driveway and parked the car. He threw the door open and found his father flipping the remote of channels, still figuring out how to work the new TV. Hearing the door open, his father glanced at him.
An idea struck Xavier. He should be punished with more than just letting out steam, right? He stepped in a few and slid the glass door of the gun case open, not bothering to close the front door. He took out the same gun that killed his brother and pointed it to the exact same spot on his father’s head.
He finally understood the difference between weak and strong. He finally knew what was going to happen. Xavier released the trigger and flashed all the memories through his head. His brother, the crow, all the sounds of a bullet. Every sound that was the only sound that made him cringe. The only sound that ever made him… weak.
Xavier looked at his chest, feeling a searing pain. He’d been shot. He fell dead of the floor after shooting one last glance at his father.
His father clicked his tongue and set the gun to rest on the side table. He spoke to the dead body, “I told you once Xavier and I’ll tell you again. You’re weak. The weak never survive.”