Click, Click
By Josslynn Blanchard
Drake Merwin had a score to settle. He wasn't scared. He wasn't nervous. He was prepared. Prepared for Holden and his continual yammering. He was done being the pushover—the spoiled kid who made empty threats. Oh, his days of empty threats were over.
Drake had a plan. It wasn't elaborate, but it was well thought out. Simple and effective.
Holden came to Drake's house every Wednesday afternoon. Like clockwork, he would ride up on his electric blue, three speed bike, abandon it in a haphazard heap on the sidewalk, and ring the doorbell three times.
Ding dong. Ding dong. Ding dong.
Drake smiled his shark- like grin. Showtime.
He opened the door with a flourish. For once in his life, Drake was happy to see Holden. "Come in," he said.
Holden stared for a moment, seemingly confused by Drake's sudden congeniality. Drake was never happy to see him. Some babysitter, Drake thought with a smirk.
"Why don't we hang out in the backyard?" Drake said, already leading the way.
Holden looked around for a moment. "Did your parents get rid of the doghouse?"
"Dog house?" Drake repeated.
"Yeah, you know where you sleep."
Drake felt his pulse spike. "Shut up," he growled.
But he didn't say anything more. No threat, no vicious name calling. He took a deep breath and thought about the pure ecstasy he soon feel—that unmistakable power. He'd felt it once and now he was addicted. Stronger than any illegal substance, power pulled at him, whispered his name. Seduced him the way a girl never could.
He chuckled to himself.
Holden cackled, unaware of the thoughts that swirled in little Drake's head. "I think," he said, pulling a hammer from the tool box behind him. "We should build you one." By the dark glint in Holden's green eyes, Drake knew that Holden had a new "game" planned.
Too bad.
"Really? I was thinking something completely different." He circled Holden. He was a muscled kid, twice his size and four years older than him. Holden gave him odd look.
"Confused? Let me make this clear." He pulled out his father's gun from his waistband.
He wasn't nervous. His hands were steady. The gun felt right in his hands. The 40 caliber felt like raw power. Drake laughed again. What a marvelous thing, that power. Drake savored the feeling for a moment, before looking over at Holden.
"Say something, say anything," Drake taunted. "I dare you."
Holden's breathing became labored. "Drake, man—" In the course of all of forty five seconds, the bully had become the victim.
"Ah, ah, ah. The only words I want to hear from your mouth, Holden, are 'sorry' or some variation." Drake clicked the safety on the gun.
Click. Safe.
Click. Deadly.
Click. Click. Click. Click.
"I'm s-sorry. Drake, look I'll stop messing with—"
Holden was interrupted by a gunshot. He looked down and screamed at the red spot slowly spreading down his leg. And then the pain set in and he barely heard Drake say, "I'm sorry. That's not the answer I was looking for."
But he wasn't sorry.
