989 words

somewhere in the north of the states

‘Where the heck you go out again, you brat!’ I shudder. He’s unaccustomed waking up this early—the sun hasn’t risen yet.

‘I have told you. I’m bringing home the bacon’ I said under my breath, don’t care whether he can hear me. But my drunken dad doesn’t give a hang and keeps throwing horrendous words at me like it’s his routine. 

I ignore him and decide to leave. As soon as I close the front door, an icy-cold breeze ruffles my face. I wrap my worn coat to feel warm—even though it’s useless—and walk carefully on snow. It stops snowing but the last night damage is obviously seen. There used to be blades of grass on the side road. Now, they’re gone. Unless the snow melts, nobody knows they once existed.

After a wearying thirty-minute walk, I arrive at Ms. Wagner’s house. I ring the bell and wait. She shows up, smiling at me

          ‘Good morning, Oliver. Right on time as usual. Come in’

      Before entering the house, I tap my boots on the floor to shake snowflakes. ‘The breakfast is almost done,’ she said as I followed her. Ms. Wagner is a widow. Months ago, she took me in, giving me breakfast and an unskilled job which I make use of.

         ‘You look healthy. Look at all the muscle and your height. I’m glad,’ she said as I had the first bite. I smile back. ‘You used to be scrawny.’ I didn’t reply and immerse myself in eating.

‘I’ll start the job. Thanks for the meal, Ms. Wagner.’ I head to the garage and grab a snow shovel on the damp floor. The first year was tough—the longer I cleared the snow, the more severe frostbite I got—since I was slow and washed-out. But after a few years, I’m skilled enough.

The pile of snow around the house is not too thick. I get back in the house after shoveling snow on the walkways. Ms. Wagner is sitting on a couch, smiling at me again.

‘It’s during this time of year, right?’ she said, giving me five bucks.

‘Thank you, Ms. Wagner. Yes, I’ll drop by to see her tomorrow.’

‘Please give my regards to your mother.’

‘Certainly.’

She knew my mom. My mom often came to her house, doing chores. In return, whenever my mom felt desperate, Ms. Wagner would console her. They were good friends. That’s why she is kind to me.

         I say goodbye to her after talking to each other for some extent, then head north to the flour mill. It starts to snow again. I quicken my pace, fear I can’t clock on in time. There are a couple of workmen chattering in the factory—they didn’t pay me attention. I scoop wheat into buckets, pour it into the machine and wait until it’s milled into a sack. Afterwards, I miserably pull a forty-five-pound sack of flour to the truck parking behind the mill. I used to hate this job. Yet, it helps me gain strength—that’s a good thing. 

One sack, two sacks, three sacks. At the end of the day, I reached the twenty-sack-a-day quota. I was going to leave but the weather forecast on a worker’s radio hesitates me.

Good evening, everyone. Tomorrow you can expect quite fair weather. The temperature is still low but with sunshine. However, things will change by late at night with a snowstorm.

What a coincidence, I think to myself.

When I arrive home, my dad is fast asleep in the living room with bottles of booze beside him as always. Indifferently, I walk to my room. Lying on the bed I stare at the ceiling. Tomorrow is the day.

          ‘Where the hell did you go again!’ It’s his version of ‘hello, son.’

          ‘To the cemetery. It's the anniversary of mom’s death.’

          ‘What’s the point? You can’t bring that bitch back to life anyway.’

          ‘No, she was your wife, my mom.’

          ‘Whatever you say, son. It serves her right, being dead.’ He said inattentively and took a gulp of booze.

          ‘What did you just say? She died at your hands, your filthy hands!’ I stare at him, not up like when I was a weakling, but down. ‘And if you dare call her bitch again, you’ll regret it.’

‘Why the hell it’s my fault? That fucking bitch was a wimp.’ He said harshly and spitted on the floor.

          That’s the last straw. I have had enough. I planned to be a little kind to him—wait for him to be unconscious—but fuck it. I’ll make this scumbag beg for his life. I approach him so rapidly that he chokes. I tightly grab him by his neck, squeezing it until his slurred voice dies away. I can feel his pulse dancing in the cage of my hand, but before he stops breathing I let go. He looks me in the eye and so do I. But no, it’s not over, not yet. I’ll do just like how he did to my mom. I have waited for this moment for years. I have trained myself to be strong enough to avenge on him for my mom’s painful death. It won’t be easy on him.

         ‘I warned you, didn’t I?’ I growled then slapped him. Before he can utter any curse, I begin throttling him one more time, my thumbs on his Adam’s apple. His limbs won’t stay still. Shock crosses his face. In no time, he was motionless.

Outside is pitch-dark and it starts snowing. I pull his body—exactly how I pull a sack of flour—to the backyard. Even though he is heavy, it’s not a big deal. A long drag mark on snow. But it won’t be a problem because the snowstorm in the dead hour of the night will do its job. It will snow for another few months, his body will be buried under cold white carpet before it melts. Until then I won’t be around anymore.