I look at my alarm clock and then outside, 1:00 AM and storming. I turn on the light to find my black rain coat and took one look at myself in the full body mirror at 15 I was still scrawny as a 12 year old, but as tall as a giraffe. Black curls cover my solid green eyes that match my expressionless face. I hop out my second story window and climb down the big oak tree as I have done many times before, but never this dark, this late, this rainy. My feet squish down on the flooding grass, and I take one look back at my warm, safe home. I snap back into reality as the rain soaks into my bones. I start sprinting down the road carefully avoiding any cars crazy enough to be driving at this time in this weather.
Finally I’ve made it to my destination, my old, deserted, rotting away house. The house I moved from a year ago. I creep over to the lifeless, flooded flower bed near the front door. My hands search for the hidden, rusted shovel in the murky water. One hand brushes against the splintering wood, and then both hands pick it up out of the swamp.
I run around the back to the fenced-in-by-rusted-chain-link backyard. The gate is locked, but I easily throw the shovel over and *hop the fence. The grass is well over due for a cut, and it feels like a walking though a swampy storming safari. I spot the area I’ve been looking for, a large stick upright just above the grass. A stick that’s been there all my life. I pulled the stick, heavy with mud, out of the ground, and began to dig. The heavy mud makes it impossible to shovel, filling in every hole I dig, but I keep don’t stop. I dig till my arms burned like hell in the flesh, and then I dig some more. I dig like my life depends on it, and in a sense it did. Finally I heard the dull, but satisfying clink of metal on metal. It’s there, just as it should be. I drop the shovel and dive into the quick-sand like hole. Just barely connecting with the metal handle before it’s covered in mud. I pull it out along with myself from the 5 ft deep-and-filling hole. I hug the briefcase with pride, but I’m not done. I have to make sure it’s there like it said on the note.
I open the sliding back door which hasn’t been able to lock for 3 years. The dark empty house has an eerie feel to it. I set the briefcase down on the hardwood floor and sit down in front of it. The only sound is the pitter-patter of rain on the leaky roof. The only light is the occasional strike of lightning. In the darkness I wait for each lightning strike to illuminate the case so I can enter another digit into the combination lock: 3. 9. 2. 7 enter. The briefcase slowly, mechanically opens. I peer in, but see nothing, until the lightning strikes once again. I see the diamonds, all shapes and sizes. The briefcase is almost completely full, valuing up to two million dollars, easy. I smile, my parents didn’t lie, I silently thank them.
As I close the case ready to run back to my new home I hear the thump of quiet footsteps. Before I can move I feel the cold, wet gun pressing against the back of my head. Time slows down to the speed of icicle melting in the arctic.
“I would hate to blow your brains out Chris, but I need two things, the briefcase and the code,” He says.
I know that voice immediately. I feel like throwing up, but he was the only person I expected to be stopped by. I had just hoped he would’ve come. That was my 20 year old bipolar brother, David.
David ran away after he killed my parents a year ago, and I’m the only one who knows, he would of killed me to. I was hidden, but that didn’t stop me from hearing the gunfire and my parents cry for help. As we grew up he would always beat me up and make horrible threats to me, but I never thought he would kill. The memory still haunts me, but I’ve learned to ignore it. Now I live with my aunt, uncle and their son. While it looks like they live a wonderful life I knew how much, financially, they were struggling. They were one unpaid mortgage from being foreclosed. I couldn’t let them go through that.
The world around me slows down, what feels like hours is only seconds. I couldn’t give it to him, I need it, my aunt and uncle need it, and even if I did give it to him he would still kill me. I know he would. My only option was to knock the gun out of his hand and run, but I knew that wouldn’t stop him. I have to kill him to save myself.
With the briefcase in hand I turn around and brought the case down on the wrist that held the gun. David fell to his knees and coddles the limp wrist with his good hand.
I couldn’t believe what I had done, but I act fast. I drop the briefcase, pick up the gun and ran to the other side of the empty room. I point the gun where my brother sat and watch as he stood up with an enraged face, the lightning echoing his movement.
“Stop moving,” I said.
“You wouldn’t shoot me,” he continues towards me with a grim smile that will haunt me forever.
“I’m warning you,” he was only a few step away...
The shot echos throughout the house, and I drop the gun. My ears rang, and I was temporarily deaf. But that was nothing compared to what I saw. I wish the lightning had gone away because all I could see was blood when it struck. I can see the bullet hole, square in his chest, flood with blood in seconds. His lifeless eyes, begging for forgiveness. And then the tears. They fill my eyes to the point at which I am blind. They sting like acid, silently melting down my cheeks. I cry and sob and beg for another chance...for mercy...for forgiveness...for anything besides this. I wanted him back before I had even pulled the trigger, and regret cuts into my mind like chainsaw cuts into wood. I’m meant to be a killer, and neither was my brother. I sit for another hour or so weeping until I don’t have anymore tears to let out.
Finally I stand up, a little wobbly at first, then when a catch my balance I walk over to the briefcase. I pick it up, avoiding to looking at my dead brother. I walk to the front of the house, and let myself out the rotted door. I let the rain wash away everything, and I run to my house. I climb up the big oak tree and walk into my room. I grab a spare piece of paper and write a note to leave on the briefcase.
I’m sorry, but I have to go. Don’t look for me because you won’t find me. I hope this helps, the code is 3927. How I got the case isn’t relevant, but use the diamonds to get back on track. I wish I could stay, but I can’t.
-Chris
I set the note along with my briefcase on the bed, and climb down the tree for the last time. I take one look back at the warm, safe home, and think.
You wouldn’t shoot me were his last words. But I did. I let one last tear fall to the ground. And run.