➴ Katniss Everdeen
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Join date : 2011-07-23
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 |  Subject: Fear is All I Know  Fri Aug 03, 2012 1:33 pm | |
| Here is my submission. It's a bit dark, but Ethan kind of struck me as a dark charactor, so I hope you enjoy it!Ethan Nakamura | Son of Nemesis“No!” he screamed. “No! Not again!” The small boy had been through this enough times. It wasn’t enough to make scars; no one was supposed to know. But good enough to make bruises, say he had an accident. But four times every week? Children weren’t that observant. But Ethan was. That was him. His small, frail, child body limited him. He couldn’t fight back. His father, with whatever was in his reach; he couldn’t stop the item that came down on him. His legs, his arms, his face, his chest, his head; they all hurt.
His father didn’t respond, only smiled. His tight eyes, made red by whenever he did when he wasn’t home beating his son, frightened the boy. They were like devil’s eyes, staring into his soul. They called him worthless, weak, and stupid. To most seven year old boys, these things would make them cry. But Ethan was far past crying. All he could do was cower, and feel the blows to his shoulders cause bruises, terrible, terrible bruises. A skinny boy like him, he couldn’t take care of himself in the midst of panic. And he knew he could turn his father in. He’d seen it before. A kid from his school, his mother had tormented him, and when she was arrested, he was taken away. Ethan didn’t know where they took him. He was afraid of the unknown. It stunned him into silence. But that night, Ethan was about to discover a hatred that was going to well for a long time. The glass bottle that his father had been hitting him with, it shattered. It looked like a small firework to Ethan, and he watched in awe. But he registered the pain, the burn. Red was pooling on his shoulder, and he started shaking. “D-dad?” he asked, voice barely a whisper. But his father was passed out.
† † †
Ethan ran, glossy black hair blowing in his face, shielding his black eyes that were full of terror. The pocket knife felt heavy, and it nagged at him as it ran. Why did he even carry it? Was he really desperate enough to hurt someone? He knew he was, it was only a matter of time. But, to avoid it, he kept running. The three thugs were on his heel, yelling curses at him. He hadn’t even known what he’d done to make them so angry at him. He had almost laughed when they accused him of punching one of their friends. That was a mistake.
Ethan was now twelve. His father was dead. He lived in a foster home, he went to school. He didn’t care. School was hell, and so was his home. So was his life. His mind was forever scarred, but he hadn’t resorted to violence. Yet.
He didn’t know this town, and he knew he was in trouble. The only reason they hadn’t caught him yet was because he had had a head start. But he ran right into a wall, and he reminded himself of that old cartoon, Tom and Jerry. How Tom, the cat, always ran into things and Ethan actually laughed. But it was an uneasy laugh; he knew from the heavy footfalls that the three guys had caught him. He slowly got up. It was almost nothing compared to other things he’d been through. “Hey guys,” he said, lifting a hand to wave. The pocket knife was still there, whispering to him, to take it out.
The guys laughed. “Hey Druggie,” the tallest one said.
Druggie was a nickname they used for him since he found out his father had been doing drugs. Like Ethan could help it. He couldn’t even help himself. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and with his right hand, gripped the knife.
“Hiya,” he said, with a nervous smile.
They didn’t respond, only gave each other small shoulder bumps, deciding which one was putting the beat down on Ethan. They had picked the biggest one, just for the irony. Ethan was thin, wiry, and not the most buff. Ethan knew then, he couldn’t avoid. He knew it would come. He wasn’t even surprised as he flipped the knife out, and gave them a grin. They all stared at him in shock. Then the big one laughed, and sauntered up to him. “Just give that to me, Druggie, and we’ll make sure it’s quick.”
But Ethan acted as if his body was not his own. He stabbed into the boy’s stomach, and pulled the knife out as he bellowed in pain. He swiftly went to the tall one, and slashed at both his legs. The third one, who was much like Ethan, looked at him with fake bravery. Ethan wasted no time in stabbing his throat. And Ethan shook his head. Too little, too late did he notice that was fatal. His fingers uncoiled from the knife, one by one. The others were gone; he could still hear their frantic yelling. “Murderer!” they yelled. “Murderer!” Ethan shook. He slumped to the ground, right next to the body he had just taken the life from. What if he had a girlfriend? A family that loved him? He wasn’t a killer.
“I’m not a killer,” he whispered. “I’m not a killer.”
He still shook.
“I’m not,” he choked out in a hoarse voice.
He stayed, huddled on the ground in a small pool of blood, for a long time. No one even came. He heard sirens outside, but no one dared venture into that dead end. “I’m not,” he said for the thousandth time. He had begun to cry silently. “I . . . I’m not,” he sobbed. His sobs echoed through the dead end, which carried some nervous whispers from people out by the sirens. Police, ambulances, funeral, charges, court, guilty, jail. All those words ran through his head, and he deafly sat up. He needed balance in his life. He needed a better life.
Light shone through the darkness like a star, and it blinded Ethan, he shielded his eyes from it, he feared it. He still shook, tears rolling down his face. “Leave me alone!” he cried, voice cracking. He heard a soft laugh. There was a woman, kneeling beside him. She looked much life himself, but she seemed important. He was afraid of her, even though she smiled warmly. There was still a chill in her eyes. “Hello my son,” was what she said.
“Son?” Ethan said between sobs.
She frowned. “Please. Ethan. Be strong. Weakness will get you nowhere.”
He tried to stop, but he couldn’t. And she didn’t hug him. She didn’t comfort him. She only watched, head cocked to the side. She was still frowning at him. Then, as quickly as a blink, she smiled. “My son. Would you like to aid me?” she asked. He was suddenly excited. He had never made anyone proud of him. And this woman was his mother. He wanted to make his mother proud. “Of course,” he replied, eyes lighting up. She looked at him curiously. She didn’t speak for some time, and he thought he had said something wrong.
“You have lovely eyes Ethan,” she said, staring into them.
It made him uneasy. “Thank you mother,” he said, looking away.
She nodded. “You have done something terrible. You have taken a life, mortal it may be.”
He winced. “Yes mother.”
“You must make up for it, should you not?”
“Yes mother.”
“I will let you restore balance. Restore order to the world one day.”
He smiled. “Really? That would make up for what I did? Would it make you proud?”
She silenced him with a hand. “Yes. But, these things do not come without a price.”
“I will do anything mother! Anything at all! Just tell me!”
She smiled, but it had an edge. “Your eye.”
His eyebrows knit in confusion. "My eye?”
She kept smiling. “You must give me one of your eyes, my son. One of your eyes, for balance of the world. A small price, is it not Ethan?”
He was entranced. He nodded eagerly. “Yes mother! Please, do whatever it takes!”
She laughed, but it was not friendly. “Good.”
That was all she said. No goodbye, no “This is going to hurt”. No warning. She lifted a hand, and twisted it in the air. All Ethan could feel was pain. Pain like he had never felt in his life. He screamed, and writhed on the ground, like a dying animal. He could hear his mother laugh, and hear voices from outside the alley. He kept screaming, and held his hands over his left eye. His whole body shuddered. And when the pain was over, he felt nothing. He opened his eyes, but he couldn’t not see out of his left eye. This was his price. People rushed in, and exclaimed, “Oh my God!” and rushed to him. The body of the dead boy was no longer there. Before Ethan thought anything, or registered anything else, he swore to himself one thing. “Never will I tell anyone about that dead boy. Never.” Inside his head, he could hear his mothers laugh before he lost consciousness. | |
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