The Slaughter of Billy Weaver
"No my dear," she smirked, "only you." I started to feel lightheaded. This woman, who I thought was a sweet, short, old lady, had just poisoned me? Now that I think of it, she looked familiar. Those twinkling forest green eyes have the same spark as my mother's friend, who turned out to be on the run and a serial killer. I can feel my mind wandering.
I remember reading a quote by Terry Pratchett, who is, well, was my favorite author. It went something like, "It is said that your life flashes before your eyes just before you die. That is true, it's called life." Yes, it's all coming back to me now.
At the age of five, I was a pretty clever child, oh the irony. Anyway, I started questioning my mother, about everything. It drove her absolutely insane. It also seemed like she was always on "business" and she was always changing her appearance, hair color and name for example. She would travel to England all the time and bring me with her. But that's not the only place, we must have circled the globe at least twice. As I got older I asked her 'why' but she never answered me, as if she was hiding something.
When I was younger, she would read to me every night and let me tell her my secrets, all this bonding was nice, until I hit fourteen. When we would visit Manchester, she started dropping me off at a small flat that was wild berry colored. When my mother would knock on the old, coffee brown door, I would look around to see freshly cut light green grass and the worn down swing set, hanging from an oak tree, which had the prettiest leaves in the fall. But, when the squeaky door opened, the sight wasn't as pretty. A short lady that must've been in her forties with messy jet black hair, a pale face, dark purple clothes, and a face full of makeup, would appear. I shivered every time I saw her. There was something about her though, her forest green eyes. I could never look away. She would then smile at my mother with a, "Good afternoon, Abby," and then my mother would hug her, never saying her name once.
The lady and I would never really talk, but I've always caught her glancing at me, as if she was admiring me. The next two years were the same, my mother would grow distant from me. We argued most days and she ignored me. That was until a week ago, where I fueled the fire that was my mother. It started with me finding an dusty, old photo album. I found it in my mother's closet one day, when she wasn't home.
I was bored, so I decided to look through my mother's stuff. I opened her old, white closet, that smelt like perfume. I happened to look down and saw the photo album. It looked fancy, like something you would get at a wedding. Weird, my mother was never married. But on the front it had a picture of my mother and a guy. The guy looked like me, with dark brown hair and baby blue eyes.
On the first page it said, "Congratulations Mary and Patrick Maloney!" Who are those people? I thought my mother's name was Abby Weaver? Who is Patrick and what happened to him? I decided to look at old newspapers my mother also kept. No, this can't be right, 'Patrick Maloney Slaughtered.' Wait, is that the reason we are always on the run? I slowly put the pieces together.
Did my mother kill him? Why would she do that and how? At that exact moment my mother decided to walk in the room. When she saw me she froze.
"Billy? What are you doing looking at my stuff?!" she screeched. She then tore the papers from my shaking hands and threw them in the closet, slammed the door and yanked me up by my collar.
"Why did you kill my father?" I simply stated.
"It's none of your damn business!" she screamed at the top of her lungs. "I'm so sick and tired of you, so I'm going to send you to Bath." And here we are.
"It's you…" I whispered at the landlady before blacking out forever.