The Man Who Killed my Mother

At the age of six, Scott was made to watch his mother's brutal murder then kidnapped by her killer. Having finally escaped the gang who held him for eight years, Scott wants only one thing - answers.


2. Chapter 1


I carefully moved a branch from in front of my face to get a better view. I guess that was one of the benefits of living the way I did - I knew how to watch a girl and not get caught. Her name was Chrissie, and she’d caught my attention after her first kill. It was swift, clean, without regret. Most people don’t kill until their lives are threatened, but Chrissie had done it to save someone else.  And she’d looked so beautiful as she did.

                That night her face was flushed red with a mix of anger and fear; her eyes were wide and bright. Her clothes were ripped and torn, bloodied from another girl’s wounds, and her knotted brown hair flew in front of her face, swimming in the wind. But what struck me the most was the feeling of justice that radiated from her, the pure, undeniable goodness that made up every atom in her body, even as she ended a person’s life. Then came the strength, the look of serenity that said she was courageous and brave and utterly remarkable. 

                Through the newly-made gap in the plants I could see Chrissie clearly. She was sitting on a patch of grass by the lake, dunking clothes in the water then setting them down on a nearby rock. It looked so methodical, so calculated. But she did everything that way – with the same thought and sense of purpose.

                I watched her face and how it changed, how it would contort occasionally; pursing her lips and furrowing her eyebrows in thought. There was pain behind those eyes, and I knew how that felt. Then suddenly I watched her eyes change again. They became wide and I saw her throat contract as she gulped. She had seen something. Something that made her afraid.

                I was almost certain she hadn’t seen me; I knew what I was doing and that I was well hidden. She was looking in a different direction, too. I followed her gaze towards a clearing where I could see a man. He was holding a baseball bat, and was pointing it accusingly at Chrissie.

“You got my cash, babes?” he hissed. My chest tightened at his words – how dare he talk to her like that? I tried to slow myself down, to convince myself to wait before I acted; it might not have been what it looked like. Although I somehow doubted it.

                I crept closer so I could hear better, and to be nearer if she needed my help. She had stood up by now, and was facing the man confidently.

“I don’t owe you anything,” she replied, trying to sound calm, “it’s my dad’s debt, not mine,”

“Ah, but he’s a bit dead, ain’t he babes?” The feeling in my chest returned. Chrissie’s face went pale and she gulped again.

“It’s still not my debt,” her voice shook.

“I need it off someone,” the man walked closer, putting his hand on her shoulder and bending so his face was in front of hers, “don’t I, babes?” Then he spat in eyes.

                Before I could register anything I felt myself run forwards, towards Chrissie. I was a few metres away before either of them noticed me, but it was the man who saw me first. He pushed down on Chrissie’s shoulder, forcing her to the ground, and then turned his attention to me.

“Oh look, here comes the cavalry,” he mocked. Big mistake.

“Hey man, I’m not looking for trouble. Leave the girl and go,”

“Or what?”

“You seriously wanna stick around long enough to see?”

                The man laughed as I spoke and started swinging his baseball bat tauntingly. I didn’t know what he was planning to do – show of his baton twirling skills until I died of boredom? He was cocky, and I didn’t think he was sober, which made things so much easier. Although I didn’t want to fight while he was holding Chrissie like that, with that much control over her. I didn’t want her involved and I certainly didn’t want her to see me kill him.

                I decided I had to make him let go of her, so I took one of the knives from my belt. My plan was risky and could backfire if the man moved even an inch, but I couldn’t do anything else with Chrissie so close to him. I threw the knife at the arm holding the bat, just below the shoulder.

                My aim was perfect, and he dropped the bat straight into the lake like I wanted. He put the hand that was restraining Chrissie over the wound and she had enough time to get away from him and closer to me.

“Don’t,” she pleaded with me, “he’s strong!” I ignored her and gestured towards the bushes behind us, indicating she should hide. She did, albeit unwillingly.
“Oh, the little boy’s clever,” the man was panting, “babe, where you gone? You left me?” He was spluttering and stumbling as he laughed. Blood poured from his arm.

                He staggered towards me slowly. I knew I could get me and Chrissie to safety before he could even manage to move a metre, but I needed to end it now. I needed to make sure Chrissie was safe. I took another knife from my belt; a bigger, sharper one. I waited until he had come closer to me and was too weak to move quickly. I lifted the knife and threw it at his chest. He fell to the floor.

                As I saw his body collapse, a sharp pain coursed through my body. I hated killing people, but it was how I was raised and how we all had to live.

 Up a short dirt track, disguised by shrubs and wild plants, lay a small house were teenage murderers lived. Me, Chrissie and a couple of others. We all had different stories, different reasons for living the way we did. Most of the time we kept them secret; our pride growing into a giant wall around our memories. Chrissie, I now realised, was with us because she was running away from her father’s debt and the man trying to collect it. But she didn’t have to run anymore.

                My eyes refocused, still staring blindly at the corpse. His face was pale and cold, but I couldn’t escape the stare of his pupils. I lent down beside him and shut his eyelids. I removed my knives from his flesh, wiped them, and put them away. I unfolded his crumpled limbs and straightened his clothes. Now he looked a bit more… peaceful. I didn’t have to move the body; a looter would do that for me later.

                “Why do you do that?” Chrissie’s voice echoed in the silent wood, making me jump. I hadn’t even realised she’d come from behind the bushes.

“Do what?” I sat up and looked at her.

“Lay them out all pretty like that. After you’ve killed them,” her words stung, but they were soft and inquisitive.

“Because I can’t stand the fact I just murdered him,”

“Then why did you do it? He wasn’t going to kill me,”

“No, just beat you black and blue then come back a week later and do it again. Much better,” I sounded angry and heartless – like a complete ass.

“You really are as damaged as they say, aren’t you?” she shook her head and sat next to me, “what happened to you? What’s your story?”

                I closed my eyes and tried to decide whether to tell her or not. I wasn’t worried about reliving any of my past; I did that every day in my nightmares. There was just something about Chrissie that made me want to protect her, to keep her safe, and I didn’t want her to know what had happened to me. She might see me as weak, and I am not weak. I didn’t want her to think I’m belligerent either.

                On the other hand, I had just seen her past.

                I looked up at her face again and saw that she cared. I also saw the pain in her eyes that I’d seen earlier, and I realised that she would understand.

“My mom was murdered when I was a kid,” I whispered as Chrissie laid a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m sorry. That man killed my father,” she gestured at the body, “I was just left alone with my mom. At least you had your dad, right?”

“Not quite. I don’t know where he is,”

“So, who looked after you all these years?”

“I’d rather not-“

“Just tell me, it’ll help you,” I was getting frustrated. I didn’t want to tell her anything else.

“No,” I said, and got up to walk away.

“It can’t have been that bad! We’ve all got issues Scott,” she called to me.

“I was raised by the man who killed my mother. He kidnapped me, on my sixth birthday, after I watched him crack her head open like an egg and leave her dying on the floor. He took me into his gang and taught me to kill. My dad never even tried to look for me,” I shouted at her as she stared at me. She carried on staring as I stormed off into the trees.

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...