I'm thirteen years old, and I've done more wrong than a man twice my age.
My mother and father were good people. They raised me right, and never hurt a fly. But they were a little reckless when they were younger. My mother's name was Belle, the French word for "beautiful." And she was. I know because my father, Chandler Sutton, wasn't the only man who couldn't wait to marry her. They used to tell me stories about how all the young men were chasing Belle Williams around town, but she only had eyes for my daddy. Seven months after they were married, I was born. That was their one mistake, and they never regretted it once, because their mistake made me. Their perfect son.
But other people didn't take quite the same manner of thinking about us. I was teased my whole life by the other children. "Whore's baby," they would call me, among other names. My mother was no whore. But their fathers, the men who used to court her when she was still a Williams, told stories in their houses. They told their sons and daughters about a woman who never existed, the whore Belle Williams, and told those children that she was my mother. Every day I took the abuse from the other boys, let them shout at me and hit me, and every day I went home to my parents, Chandler and Belle Sutton, and told them I loved them. And I never told them what was happening to me. Still, I think they must have known.
Two nights ago, I was walking alone into town when I heard something behind me. I did not immediately turn around, but instead listened carefully as I continued on my way. I slowly became aware of three men behind me – big, strong men, from the sound of it, attempting to be stealthy but their weight giving them away with each step. "I know you're behind me," I said quietly, but loud enough so they could hear. "You won't sneak up on me."
The footsteps continued for a few more moments, then one of the men spoke. I recognized his voice: he was the father of Thomas, a boy who often teased me. "Belle's pretty little boy knows we're behind him, does he? Think he knows what his mama liked to do before he was born? Hey boy, are you sure Chandler Sutton's your father?" The man laughed, a deep, throaty sound that made me want to run home to my mother as fast as I could. But of course, they were blocking the path home.
Another man spoke, and I immediately remembered his voice too. Hugo, the biggest, meanest boy in town, had a voice and build just like his father's, and this monstrous man was following behind me too. "Your mama was a real pretty girl some fourteen years ago, boy," he snarled. "Still is a real pretty girl. Did you know she comes to visit me sometimes, when the missus is out? I enjoy my visits with your mama, boy." I knew none of what Hugo's father said was true, but I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists so tight that I knew without even looking that my knuckles were turning white as snow.
Then I heard the third voice, a man who sounded vaguely familiar, but whom I couldn't place. "You don't know me, boy," he said, barely speaking above a whisper. "But me and your mama were best friends awhile back. She won't talk to me anymore, hasn't since you were born. Wanna know why?"
I took a deep breath, calming myself, willing my legs to keep walking and my mouth to keep shut. But I couldn't will my ears not to hear, no matter how much I knew this man had to be lying.
"You sure you know who your daddy is? You sure your mama married your real daddy? 'Cause I say, it's more likely he went away, and tonight is the very first time you ever heard his voice–"
I could no longer stop myself. Without consent from my mind, my legs moved my body to the edge of the path, where the beginning of an iron fence had been erected. My hands snatched up a spare metal rod that must have been left there, waiting for someone to add it to the fence…or maybe waiting for me. My arms, with no conscious thought behind their movements, swung the metal rod once. Thomas' father crumpled. My arms swung again. Hugo's father, the massive, muscled beast, went down. Then my arms dropped. I stared into the eyes of the stranger, a tall man with brown hair and a scraggly beard. He laughed. "So, boy, what's your name? I oughta get to know my own kid's name, right?" As he laughed again, I noticed his eyes, a cold, icy, dark blue, nothing like my mother's sparkling green eyes or my father's warm, soft brown eyes…or like mine.
This man is not my father, I thought. This man says he is my father and he is not. With my mind fully in control of my body this time, I raised my new weapon over my head and brought it down over his, with a satisfying crack.
That night, when I returned home, I said nothing of the matter to my parents. I couldn't bring myself to tell them what the men of the town had said about my mother, or what that stranger had implied about me. But when the bodies were found the next day, my father took one look at me and he could tell. His face changed, and he looked a hundred years old as he swept silently out of the house. My mother could tell too, but she simply gathered me in her arms and sang, a lullaby about peace, about a meadow where no one fights or taunts each other, where we could sleep and never feel pain. We both fell asleep, there in her rocking chair, in the middle of the day.
We awoke late in the afternoon to shouts coming from outside. My mother and I rushed out to see my father, bound tightly with ropes, being hoisted into the tree in our front yard with a noose around his neck.
My mother rushed forward. "What is the meaning of this? My husband has done nothing wrong!"
"Chandler Sutton killed three men!" someone in the crowd shouted. "Two family men from this town, and a stranger who did him no wrong. He admitted it himself this morning, not an hour after the bodies were found."
The color drained from my mother's face. She appeared to melt as she sank to her knees. "Chandler…" I heard her whisper, as tears formed in her eyes and fell down her face. She made no attempt to wipe them away. "Thank you for saving our son."
That was when I understood. When my father left the house that morning, he had gone straight to the courthouse. He had told the judge that he killed the men, and that he alone was responsible for their deaths. He had saved my life. But if it had not been for me, he would not have to die now, in front of us and the home we had built as a family. I watched silently as the rope was tied to a low branch, the one where I liked to sit and listen to the world, and as my father was seated upon it, then pushed from behind. I watched as my father swung from my branch, as the crowd cheered its approval, as my mother let out a wordless scream.
That night, I slept in my mother's bed. I think neither of us wanted to be alone with our thoughts. She tried to sing me her lullaby, but her voice cracked over and over and finally dissolved into tears. When I did fall asleep, dreams haunted my mind: visions of my mother crying, my father swinging in the front yard where they had left his body, singing a strange song. In the dream, he called out for my mother to run. I thought he wanted us to run away so we couldn't be hurt, but then my dream changed. My mother was wearing a new necklace, made of rope, running to the tree…she was climbing to the branch where my father hung…she was jumping, hanging herself, swinging there, forever united with her husband. When I woke up in the morning, it was true. Chandler and Belle Sutton swung side by side from the tree.
My name is Nicholas Sutton. I killed three men, and in effect I killed my parents as well.