"I don't wanna talk about it."
They'd taken down the lock on his door. It'd been flicked on ever since he'd been shown his room. He hated them for taking it down because they checked on him every thirty minutes or so. "It's not healthy for you not to talk about it, James," she'd say as she knelt down and stroked his little blond head of hair. Her face was leathery and wrinkly and she smelled like prunes. That was all James ever saw her eat growing up. She said they were good for the kidneys, though James didn't know if she even knew what that meant. He thought that she just wanted an excuse to eat the smelly things.
More than the thought of his parents being dead, James hated the thought of living with these two old people. They weren't even really grandparents. They hadn't been anything like grandparents when he was growing up. They'd just been two fogies who spent their time smoking and shoving dried fruit between their withering lips. They spoke slowly, with slurs, and could barely lift their heads when they talked to one another.
James's grandfather was worse than his grandmother. He'd recline in his chair, impassively, with a pipe hanging listlessly from his disgusting and tobacco-lidded mouth. "Suck it up, kid," he'd mutter, flipping apathetically through a newspaper. "Your folks are toes up now. Ain't nothin' in the world you can do about it so best you get over it." James would merely sit, listen, then nod. And when the old man was finished with his drivel, James would rise and return to his room.
They took out the lock because they were afraid. They were afraid that an eight year old would find a way to cause himself harm. All James wanted to do was have some privacy when he cried.
He didn't want anyone else in the world to see him cry. He had to "suck it up." He was the only heir now to the Ford family, and it'd be a cold day in hell when he let that family down. From the looks of it, he was the only noble thing left. He had to be the one to get things done.
Little eyes flicking over the plate of food in front of him, the bent prongs of his fork prodded each little section on the plate. There was some form of potato, perhaps mashed or congealed or maybe it was supposed to be a whole potato and just got soggy. There was a meat slathered in a sauce that could be gravy or fecal matter for all he knew. And then there was something green. James assumed that it was supposed to be some kind of healthy vegetation but it just looked like an animal had upchucked.
"Eat your dinner, James," his grandmother demanded, reaching across the table with her feeble, trembling hands. She pinched the edge of the plate and scooted it over towards him a little further, as though it needed to be there. James could feel bile rising in his throat, choking him. His grandfather chimed in with a rather annoyed, "The kid don't eat none. He never did. He's just like his father, that one. For all we know, he'll wind up sendin' his wife one day t'hell, like his old man did." James's grandmother looked like she wanted to protest but she was left wordless.
"Excuse me," James finally murmured, voice soft and barely audible over the clanking of their dentures as they chewed. He pushed away from the table and left the room before he could be dreadfully forced to stay and ingest the food that he'd attempted to swallow for the past three weeks. All he could think of was the fear that struck him the moment he'd heard the gunshot ringing downstairs. He'd heard the definite thump of a body as it hit the ground. He'd watched enough cowboy and Indian shows on
television to know what had happened. His mother was dead.
She'd said not to move for anything. James wouldn't have been able to even if he wanted. He could feel his blood run cold and he felt frozen in place. As he saw those cowboy boots carefully step into the room, all breath caught in his chest. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. James had been forced to go to church since he was an infant. He was baptized and everything. He wasn't sure if he believed in God, but he prayed as hard as his little mind would allow him. With another gunshot, he saw the weight leave those cowboy boots and the mattress sunk down a bit more with the weight of his father's lifeless body.
James had fallen asleep under there. His body trembled for so long that he eventually exhausted himself and just couldn't hold his eyes open any longer. The neighbors had heard the gunshots and called the police. He was discovered after they'd removed both bodies. All that James cared about was not seeing them.
The police had found letters. They'd found bank statements and listened to messages that had been saved on the phone. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened. The story was a relatively simple one. For days, James was subjected to questioning. Did he know who Sawyer was? Had he met the man? What did he look like? All James could say was, "I don't want to talk about it." He didn't. He fell into something of a relative vow of silence, speaking only when necessary, or to announce that he had no desire to speak at all.
He could still hear his grandparents' forks scraping along on their plates downstairs but James knew that they would finish eating soon and want to try and speak with him again. The lock on his door was gone so he couldn't ensure that they wouldn't come in. But James's silence had turned to frustration, which had methodically turned to anger. That anger was now boiling underneath his skin and he needed to release it. There was only one way to do that. He needed to find Sawyer for himself so that everything he'd suffered wouldn't have been in vain.
He'd have to do the best that he could with the resources he had available. His grandfather's office was still open, and it had a lock. He usually had a pipe in there every evening while he sipped on a whiskey, brandy, or something else that smelled just as vile. James closed himself inside and locked the door as quickly as he could.
His tiny legs climbed up into the large, burgundy leather chair and he hooked his hands underneath the desk to yank it closer. He pulled out the drawer and rooted through, pulling out a sheet of paper, a pen, and an envelope. His grandfather was something of a sappy fellow. It was an envelope from last month's Bicentennial celebration. But as James had decided, he would utilize the things that he had available. It didn't take him very long before he was able to put pen to paper.
Dear Mr. Sawyer,
You don't know who I am but I know who you are and I know what you done. You had sex with my mother and then you stole my dad's money all away. So he got angry and he killed my mother and then he killed himself, too. All I know is your name, but one of these days I'm going to find you and I'm going to give you this letter so you'll remember what you done to me.
You killed my parents, Mr. Sawyer.
For a moment, James wondered how he should sign the letter. Sincerely, James. Love, James. Go to hell, James. Finally, James decided to let it be. With great precision, he folded the letter and stuffed it into the envelope. He folded the envelope in half and jumped down from the chair. The leather squeaked a little as his little thighs slid down. Shoving the envelope into his pocket, he finally turned the lock on the door and stepped outside. In an angry stance, arms crossed firmly over his chest, James's grandfather snarled. His lip curled over his sharp canine teeth. "I hope you gotta good reason for bein' in my study, James."
His little eight year old eyes lifted and settled defiantly on the decaying eyes of his elder. "My name ain't James," he sneered in a hiss. "It's Sawyer." Leaving the old man stunned, the little boy returned to his room and stared at the hole in the door where he'd once had a lock.