One in six...
That had been the statistic on the news. In another two years, one in six teenagers would be a mutant.
He stared balefully at the single bullet perched like a soldier on the smooth, polished tabletop. So small a thing. Harmless to one who had no knowledge of it. A mixture of metals and chemicals molded into a simple shape. And yet, with its simplicity, there was a certain, yet indefinable, darkness to it. It was as though the bullet lived...watched...waited as though it were a living thing. A breathing, pulsing, malevolent being. Its singular purpose to bring death and ruin. There was no man stronger than a single bullet (discounting mutants of course). The thought was frightening when dwelled upon. But somehow comforting...for its seeming normalcy and mendacity reflected him on a bizarre level. Looking to be a simple object, like many others in the world; but, though fate, having a secret, special...deadly purpose.
He didn't even need to look in father's face anymore, when the word 'mutant' descended in his household. It was a horrible expression into which he contorted his chiseled, round visage. One of hatred and bigotry and unhidden vehemence. That night had been like any other nights in which father felt particularly venomous when it came to the subject of mutants.
*
They had been eating in a heavy silence, he, his father, his mother, and he two young brothers. Each chewing their food more heavily than needed, grinding their knives into their entrees with more force than was necessary, snapping their jaws in an irritated manner when their eyes glanced towards him. It was not often that he came to dinner anymore, but he had simply been too hungry to forgo the meal. And so he sat, like a great inky spot on clean white linen. An eyesore of the worst caliber.
The only distraction was thankfully a considerable one. The television. His family leaned closely towards the box when something of interest came on, forgetful of his presence for a precious few moments. It being the late evening, many of the major news programs were on, each with the same headlining story as the last. Father finally settled on one program (namely because the anchorwoman looked decidedly more all-American than the others, which were composed of a young Asian woman, a balding but still dignified black man, and another man, whom, despite looking to lack any ethnicity of a minority in him, was a "Fucking Jew," according to father).
He has been enjoying the rapture of silence by eating his steak leisurely(he normally had to eat quickly, as they did not enjoy seeing his mouth open) as his family watched the woman with an obscene intensity. Their eyes locked on her image as though she were some sort of news-deity, only bringing the most desired bulletins to those who praised her with their attention.
He knew what each of them were hoping to see. His brother's no doubt were eager to see some form of an accident, one that preferably had lots of stock footage of wrecked cars and bodies. His mother, a horrible-looking skinny woman even through the eyes of her once-loving son, waited intently for something to gossip about with her equally rail-like friends. And his father. His father waited for any story that would justify his outright racism. Be it a robbery committed by black men, a stock market crisis (which was always the fault of some Jew or another, according to father), or a new threat to look out for in the middle east.
Unfortunately, these were not the stories that were to be run that night. His heart had leaped up out of his chest and into his mouth when he read the blown-up words that inhabited the corner graphic near the anchorwoman's head. He let out and audible gasp before the woman had said a single word.
"Mutants in America." She said, echoing the phrase posted in the box floating by her head. "It is now known that they do exist, and are growing in numbers across the world. Are they evolutional flukes, as their label suggests? Or perhaps the next step in growth for humanity?..."
He blocked it out, tried as hard as he could to make the woman stop speaking. He wanted to see her head explode all over the television screen. He wanted her to have an aneurysm and drop dead over her fake-wooden desk and her yellow flash cards, oozing blood from her mouth. Anything to stop her from speaking he terrible words. He wished his family would do as he did and try as hard as possible to turn her piercing words into gibberish in their heads. But, looking up, his heart fell to see them looming even closer to the set, their faces gleaming with contempt and anger. One of his brothers turned to look at him with an expression of pure disgust before turning his attention back to the screen.
He closed his eyes so tightly the front of his head hurt. He wanted so badly to jam his fingers into his ears, but it would call attention to him. Instead he fought to not hear the television as it broadcasted the woman's voice over the room. She was dooming him. And still, despite his efforts, he could not keep one sentence from registering in his mind.
"Geneticists predict that in as short as two years, one in six teenagers will be a mutant."
The words echoed in his head like a great gong. He hardly had to concentrate on blocking out the woman as she finished her report and the program went to a commercial.
There was a click as the television was turned off. A silence so thick that it was almost another presence in the room presided over them.
He looked up at his family. Each of them stared with a countenance of severe anger.
He and his father's eyes had locked almost immediately across the dinner table. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to rip his gaze away, but he stayed frozen, his eyes never even twitching as they gazed fearfully into those of the man on the other side of the table.
Father's eyes twitched madly with a reddening fury that created yet another presence in the small room. The sound of grinding teeth could be heard, though not seen, through father's beefy cheeks.
"Hear that boy?" he had finally said, nearly five minutes after the TV had been turned off. "Looks like you'll be havin' your own little band of mutant faggot fucks to run away with in just a few more years."
His stare was a blaze of hellfire.
"No sir," had been the quick, hushed reply.
"I 'magine your kind'll want to stick together." Father mused, the anger seeming to intensify with a ghost-like quality, just on the edge of his words, "Just like them goddamn niggers did when my father was 'live. And you just consider yourself lucky he's gone, He'da tied you to the back 'a' the house and shot you between the eyes right when this shit started."
He fought to keep his eyes from widening with fear. He felt his hands begin to shake as a freezing sweat gripped him in chest and groin. Father continued.
"Problem with the niggers was that they already had the numbers when they wanted to rustle up shit in the system. They was hardly a minority."
Father chuckled. It was an awful sound.
"We couldn'ta shot 'em all. We'd have no more busboys. But, with you mutie fucks, you ain't good for nothing in this world. All yous are is a shit-stain on the tiles. And ya ain't got enough numbers to make a fuck's worth of difference. Not yet anyway. And if I have my way, you won't ever. And no one will stop me."
By now, the rest of the family had surreptitiously made their way out of the room, not even bothering to make an excuse. Not one had raised a hand to object to what they all knew was about to happen. They all hated him as much as father did.
"You know why no one will stop me, boy?" Father leaned forward across the table, his beady, dangerous eyes narrowing.
He kept his head down, forcing back the lump in his throat, biting his tongue so fiercely that a copperish taste began to flood his mouth.
"You. Know. Why?"
He chest felt as though it was caving in. His breaths came in short gasps.
Father slammed a palm into the table, causing him to jump in his seat as glasses and silverware clattered against each other.
"Answer me you scum of the Earth!" father roared, not even inches from his face. His hot breath washed over him like a wave of boiling water.
The was a deep quiet in the room. It was not a relief, merely a prelude to the pain that was to follow.
He finally broke his gaze with father and looked down into his lap. His drew a quivering breath and held it for a moment before he spoke, reciting the words that Father had repeated for years.
"Because I'm not a person."
Father's face twisted in momentary triumph before returning to its state of perpetual malice. Reaching into his back pocket, he drew out a small metal object, keeping it hidden behind his wrist and the palm of his hand. He already knew what it was, though.
Father grabbed him roughly by the collar of his shirt, pulling him onto the table amidst breaking glasses and plates and forced him to lay flat on his back. He made little resistance. He no longer had the mental strength to fight the anguish of what he knew was coming. He became a doll, lifeless, but obedient.
"Open your mouth, mutie." Father sneered, spittle dripping from his mouth.
Caustically, he opened his mouth little more than an inch. His eyes were half-lidded and uncaring. He forced himself, as he had done earlier, into blocking out the world around him.
Father rammed two fingers into his mouth and hooked them around his lower jaw. With one brutal pull, he forced his jaw open as wide as it could go. He fought the pull he felt at the roof of his mouth as unnatural tendons struggled to reflex to his jaw opening that wide. He fought as hard as he could. It was no use.
There was a double-snapping noise as his long, snakelike fangs sprung forward from their housings deep within his skull.
"Well. Well. Well" Father stared at the teeth menacingly, as one might an intruder in their house, late in the night. "Growing back well enough are they? Like cockroaches, these little bastards. If you wanna get rid of 'em, you just gotta keep beatin' 'em back with a broom."
Father finally revealed what he had drawn from his pocket, though there was no surprise to be had.
A small pair of pliers dangled between his thumb and forefinger.
Though he should have expected them, the mere sight of the tool sent him into a reeling panic. He instantly was brought back from his regressed state and began flailing against his father, whose full eight now rest on his chest and arms. The man was much larger than he, and kept him down with little effort.
"Keep still, or I'll make you still for good." Father hissed as he placed a block of rubber from his other pocket in his mouth. It prevented him from closing his mouth, sending the fangs safely back into the recesses of his jaw.
He felt the unwavering force of the pliers press on one of his teeth. There was a click as they locked closed, putting just the right amount of pressure on the long tooth so that it held tight.
"I will not stand for a freak in my house!" his father roared and gave a great tug on the handle of the pliers.
The pain was a lightning bolt that shot from the root of his fang to the top of his skull and back. In his field of vision he saw an arc of crimson blood leap from his mouth before spattering on his face.
With father's next pull, there came a crunching noise from behind his cheekbone that was a combination a ripping flesh and breaking enamel. Once again, pain rocketed through his head. Blood flowed. This time he could taste it in a steady stream in his mouth. He desperately wanted to spit it out, but the rubber block prevented him.
With one last pull, the tooth broke free and ripped from his mouth, coming loose in father's hand. He let out a pain-riddled cry and choked slightly on blood.
Once again, he felt the pressure of the tool, this time on the other tool. He prayed for it to stop, though he knew that God would not grant his prayers.
Father was stronger with the next tooth, now familiar with the strength of the muscle that held it. It only took two pulls for the fang to be torn from his jaw.
He lay on the table even after father had risen from his entrapping position. He pulled the block from his mouth and cupped his hands over his face. He screamed screams that had been heard many times before by the walls of the house. Screams soaked with blood and agony.
He looked at father, his eyesight blurred by tears. The large man held his fangs in one bloody hand for him to see, before dropping them to the floor and stomping on them with his boot until they were a pile of jagged chunks.
Watching father grind his fangs into the wooden floor, he felt violated. Attacked. Raped. His blood mixed with saliva mixed with tears pooled in his hands. Without thinking he buried his face in his palms, smearing the mixture over himself. His screams had turned into barely audible sobs that heaved his body. He curled into a fetal position on the dinner table.
Father grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up so that their eyes were level. Father's were harsh and white. He imagined that his were red with tears and his crimson life-essence.
"Clean this mess up and get out of my sight." Father said. Calm now, as if he had just performed some stress-relieving exercise.
With that, he dropped him back onto the table and walked out of the dining room.
"One in six...I'll kill 'em all." He said.
And there, curled up, crying, tortured, violated, in agony, covered in his own blood and shame, he heard his father's words, and vowed that it would never come true.
He unconsciously felt with his tongue the small, bloody pits in the top of his mouth. They had healed slightly, and blood had congealed over the deep wounds that were still there, buried in his upper jaw. Soon the fangs would begin to grow back as they had in the past, but he did not fear them any more. For, as he had promised himself nights earlier, he would never let them leave him again.
The bullet still glinted playfully in the darkness, finding any light source to play off of its smooth form. So small a thing. Harmless, even. Unless one knew how to use it.
He picked up the small object and toyed with it slightly in his hand. It was surprisingly light. He had forgotten much about handling them. Father hadn't let him near a gun since he had grown into the mutant he was. For that was what his mutation was. Growth. He knew that now. He now saw through the blind bigotry that he father had tried so hard to instill in him and his brothers when they were young. For all that bigotry had brought him was pain.
One in six.
That phrase had echoed in his mind ever since the night he had heard it. It had grown and taken shape. Like him. He now knew what it meant. It had been a message.
Growth. Mutants were growing in numbers. They were victimized and hated. They would be tortured, killed for what they were. As he would someday be again if he did nothing to stop it. One in six teenagers would be tortured, violated, raped as he had been.
It had to stop. It was going to stop. And it would stop tonight, for him.
That had been the message on those words. The mission. He had to step forward now, or soon, there would be more pain in the world than was bearable for him even think about. People like his father had to be stopped.
Picking up the Colt Magnum revolver from the table beside him, he flipped open the breach and placed the bullet into the chamber. There were five that remained empty.
There was a loud snap as he cocked back the hammer.
It would both begin and stop tonight.
"Who's there?"
The voice behind him came from the doorway. It was haggard and heavy. The speaker was obviously tired and confused. And slightly alarmed.
He smiled. "It's me, father."
The was the sound a of sharp intake of breath in the darkness.
"Why are you in my office, boy?" he asked menacingly.
He turned to face his father. The man's silhouette was visible in the doorway. As he strained his eyes to adjust to the dark, he began to make out more clearly his father's features. They were contorted into a visage of anger.
Unwavering, he pointed the barrel of the gun at his father's head.
He saw his father stiffen.
"Boy, what the fu-"
"You've been angry for so long father," he said in a strong voice that he did not know he possessed, never once letting the gun waiver, "So angry. So much pain you cause. I can't let it go on."
He could see that his father was now torn between blind anger and panic. It was odd to see the two emotions that naturally coincided with each other now clash. Father had always dealt with fear and panic with rage. But now, rage was not an acceptable way to keep himself alive. Watching him battle with himself was like watching a fish flopping on hot pavement.
Father said harshly, "Now you see here, boy-"
"No!" he jumped from his chair, gun still aimed, "You listen, you disgrace of a human life! I've listened to you hatred for too long. All your talk about strong taking over the weak. About the master race. About all the bullshit that justifies you intolerance. I won't listen anymore! Now you listen to me."
He clicked off the safety. This time, his father could not push his panic aside with angry words.
"One in six, father. Do you remember that? One in six kids will be mutants soon. One in six kids will be treated like dirt. Torn open and tortured in their own homes! By people like you!"
He took a step towards his father. He squeezed the trigger slightly. His hands quivered.
"It starts tonight father! Starting tonight I will make sure that no one ever has to go through what you put me through ever again. They will not be hated as I have. Do you hear me, father?"
He took one final step. He could see his father clearly now. He face was solid with fear. His eyes were wide and shaking. He held his hands up in a gesture of helplessness.
"Please..." he whispered, "Please...son..."
Vengeance took hold on him. He felt it pierce through him like a sword. It was wonderful and terribly at the same time. It gripped his mind in its fist and propelled him forward. His fingers squeezed the trigger harder. He pressed the barrel of the gun into his father's forehead.
"DO...YOU...HEAR!?"
The gunshot echoed through the house. The walls were once again rocked by the sound of pain. The floors once again tasted blood. A body hit the wood with a loud thud.
But it would be for the last time.
*
"Good evening, I'm Leslie Grader with the 7 o'clock news. Tonight's story, a mutant suspect in a nearby town was gunned down last night by police after a long chase through the forest near the boy's home. It is understood by sources that the boy was responsible for the murder of his own father, an upstanding citizen in the town, on the very same night he was pursued by police. The call to police was made by neighbors, who said that they heard raised voices and a gunshot in the house before notifying the authorities. Though it has not been concluded as to whether or not the mutant boy did threaten the police to such an extent that such force was necessary, the local sheriff has assured us that he was dangerous enough and acting in such an irrational manner that fatal force was justified. In other news, are you prepared for the winter ahead? Stay tuned for this update that will..."
That had been the statistic on the news. In another two years, one in six teenagers would be a mutant.
He stared balefully at the single bullet perched like a soldier on the smooth, polished tabletop. So small a thing. Harmless to one who had no knowledge of it. A mixture of metals and chemicals molded into a simple shape. And yet, with its simplicity, there was a certain, yet indefinable, darkness to it. It was as though the bullet lived...watched...waited as though it were a living thing. A breathing, pulsing, malevolent being. Its singular purpose to bring death and ruin. There was no man stronger than a single bullet (discounting mutants of course). The thought was frightening when dwelled upon. But somehow comforting...for its seeming normalcy and mendacity reflected him on a bizarre level. Looking to be a simple object, like many others in the world; but, though fate, having a secret, special...deadly purpose.
He didn't even need to look in father's face anymore, when the word 'mutant' descended in his household. It was a horrible expression into which he contorted his chiseled, round visage. One of hatred and bigotry and unhidden vehemence. That night had been like any other nights in which father felt particularly venomous when it came to the subject of mutants.
*
They had been eating in a heavy silence, he, his father, his mother, and he two young brothers. Each chewing their food more heavily than needed, grinding their knives into their entrees with more force than was necessary, snapping their jaws in an irritated manner when their eyes glanced towards him. It was not often that he came to dinner anymore, but he had simply been too hungry to forgo the meal. And so he sat, like a great inky spot on clean white linen. An eyesore of the worst caliber.
The only distraction was thankfully a considerable one. The television. His family leaned closely towards the box when something of interest came on, forgetful of his presence for a precious few moments. It being the late evening, many of the major news programs were on, each with the same headlining story as the last. Father finally settled on one program (namely because the anchorwoman looked decidedly more all-American than the others, which were composed of a young Asian woman, a balding but still dignified black man, and another man, whom, despite looking to lack any ethnicity of a minority in him, was a "Fucking Jew," according to father).
He has been enjoying the rapture of silence by eating his steak leisurely(he normally had to eat quickly, as they did not enjoy seeing his mouth open) as his family watched the woman with an obscene intensity. Their eyes locked on her image as though she were some sort of news-deity, only bringing the most desired bulletins to those who praised her with their attention.
He knew what each of them were hoping to see. His brother's no doubt were eager to see some form of an accident, one that preferably had lots of stock footage of wrecked cars and bodies. His mother, a horrible-looking skinny woman even through the eyes of her once-loving son, waited intently for something to gossip about with her equally rail-like friends. And his father. His father waited for any story that would justify his outright racism. Be it a robbery committed by black men, a stock market crisis (which was always the fault of some Jew or another, according to father), or a new threat to look out for in the middle east.
Unfortunately, these were not the stories that were to be run that night. His heart had leaped up out of his chest and into his mouth when he read the blown-up words that inhabited the corner graphic near the anchorwoman's head. He let out and audible gasp before the woman had said a single word.
"Mutants in America." She said, echoing the phrase posted in the box floating by her head. "It is now known that they do exist, and are growing in numbers across the world. Are they evolutional flukes, as their label suggests? Or perhaps the next step in growth for humanity?..."
He blocked it out, tried as hard as he could to make the woman stop speaking. He wanted to see her head explode all over the television screen. He wanted her to have an aneurysm and drop dead over her fake-wooden desk and her yellow flash cards, oozing blood from her mouth. Anything to stop her from speaking he terrible words. He wished his family would do as he did and try as hard as possible to turn her piercing words into gibberish in their heads. But, looking up, his heart fell to see them looming even closer to the set, their faces gleaming with contempt and anger. One of his brothers turned to look at him with an expression of pure disgust before turning his attention back to the screen.
He closed his eyes so tightly the front of his head hurt. He wanted so badly to jam his fingers into his ears, but it would call attention to him. Instead he fought to not hear the television as it broadcasted the woman's voice over the room. She was dooming him. And still, despite his efforts, he could not keep one sentence from registering in his mind.
"Geneticists predict that in as short as two years, one in six teenagers will be a mutant."
The words echoed in his head like a great gong. He hardly had to concentrate on blocking out the woman as she finished her report and the program went to a commercial.
There was a click as the television was turned off. A silence so thick that it was almost another presence in the room presided over them.
He looked up at his family. Each of them stared with a countenance of severe anger.
He and his father's eyes had locked almost immediately across the dinner table. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to rip his gaze away, but he stayed frozen, his eyes never even twitching as they gazed fearfully into those of the man on the other side of the table.
Father's eyes twitched madly with a reddening fury that created yet another presence in the small room. The sound of grinding teeth could be heard, though not seen, through father's beefy cheeks.
"Hear that boy?" he had finally said, nearly five minutes after the TV had been turned off. "Looks like you'll be havin' your own little band of mutant faggot fucks to run away with in just a few more years."
His stare was a blaze of hellfire.
"No sir," had been the quick, hushed reply.
"I 'magine your kind'll want to stick together." Father mused, the anger seeming to intensify with a ghost-like quality, just on the edge of his words, "Just like them goddamn niggers did when my father was 'live. And you just consider yourself lucky he's gone, He'da tied you to the back 'a' the house and shot you between the eyes right when this shit started."
He fought to keep his eyes from widening with fear. He felt his hands begin to shake as a freezing sweat gripped him in chest and groin. Father continued.
"Problem with the niggers was that they already had the numbers when they wanted to rustle up shit in the system. They was hardly a minority."
Father chuckled. It was an awful sound.
"We couldn'ta shot 'em all. We'd have no more busboys. But, with you mutie fucks, you ain't good for nothing in this world. All yous are is a shit-stain on the tiles. And ya ain't got enough numbers to make a fuck's worth of difference. Not yet anyway. And if I have my way, you won't ever. And no one will stop me."
By now, the rest of the family had surreptitiously made their way out of the room, not even bothering to make an excuse. Not one had raised a hand to object to what they all knew was about to happen. They all hated him as much as father did.
"You know why no one will stop me, boy?" Father leaned forward across the table, his beady, dangerous eyes narrowing.
He kept his head down, forcing back the lump in his throat, biting his tongue so fiercely that a copperish taste began to flood his mouth.
"You. Know. Why?"
He chest felt as though it was caving in. His breaths came in short gasps.
Father slammed a palm into the table, causing him to jump in his seat as glasses and silverware clattered against each other.
"Answer me you scum of the Earth!" father roared, not even inches from his face. His hot breath washed over him like a wave of boiling water.
The was a deep quiet in the room. It was not a relief, merely a prelude to the pain that was to follow.
He finally broke his gaze with father and looked down into his lap. His drew a quivering breath and held it for a moment before he spoke, reciting the words that Father had repeated for years.
"Because I'm not a person."
Father's face twisted in momentary triumph before returning to its state of perpetual malice. Reaching into his back pocket, he drew out a small metal object, keeping it hidden behind his wrist and the palm of his hand. He already knew what it was, though.
Father grabbed him roughly by the collar of his shirt, pulling him onto the table amidst breaking glasses and plates and forced him to lay flat on his back. He made little resistance. He no longer had the mental strength to fight the anguish of what he knew was coming. He became a doll, lifeless, but obedient.
"Open your mouth, mutie." Father sneered, spittle dripping from his mouth.
Caustically, he opened his mouth little more than an inch. His eyes were half-lidded and uncaring. He forced himself, as he had done earlier, into blocking out the world around him.
Father rammed two fingers into his mouth and hooked them around his lower jaw. With one brutal pull, he forced his jaw open as wide as it could go. He fought the pull he felt at the roof of his mouth as unnatural tendons struggled to reflex to his jaw opening that wide. He fought as hard as he could. It was no use.
There was a double-snapping noise as his long, snakelike fangs sprung forward from their housings deep within his skull.
"Well. Well. Well" Father stared at the teeth menacingly, as one might an intruder in their house, late in the night. "Growing back well enough are they? Like cockroaches, these little bastards. If you wanna get rid of 'em, you just gotta keep beatin' 'em back with a broom."
Father finally revealed what he had drawn from his pocket, though there was no surprise to be had.
A small pair of pliers dangled between his thumb and forefinger.
Though he should have expected them, the mere sight of the tool sent him into a reeling panic. He instantly was brought back from his regressed state and began flailing against his father, whose full eight now rest on his chest and arms. The man was much larger than he, and kept him down with little effort.
"Keep still, or I'll make you still for good." Father hissed as he placed a block of rubber from his other pocket in his mouth. It prevented him from closing his mouth, sending the fangs safely back into the recesses of his jaw.
He felt the unwavering force of the pliers press on one of his teeth. There was a click as they locked closed, putting just the right amount of pressure on the long tooth so that it held tight.
"I will not stand for a freak in my house!" his father roared and gave a great tug on the handle of the pliers.
The pain was a lightning bolt that shot from the root of his fang to the top of his skull and back. In his field of vision he saw an arc of crimson blood leap from his mouth before spattering on his face.
With father's next pull, there came a crunching noise from behind his cheekbone that was a combination a ripping flesh and breaking enamel. Once again, pain rocketed through his head. Blood flowed. This time he could taste it in a steady stream in his mouth. He desperately wanted to spit it out, but the rubber block prevented him.
With one last pull, the tooth broke free and ripped from his mouth, coming loose in father's hand. He let out a pain-riddled cry and choked slightly on blood.
Once again, he felt the pressure of the tool, this time on the other tool. He prayed for it to stop, though he knew that God would not grant his prayers.
Father was stronger with the next tooth, now familiar with the strength of the muscle that held it. It only took two pulls for the fang to be torn from his jaw.
He lay on the table even after father had risen from his entrapping position. He pulled the block from his mouth and cupped his hands over his face. He screamed screams that had been heard many times before by the walls of the house. Screams soaked with blood and agony.
He looked at father, his eyesight blurred by tears. The large man held his fangs in one bloody hand for him to see, before dropping them to the floor and stomping on them with his boot until they were a pile of jagged chunks.
Watching father grind his fangs into the wooden floor, he felt violated. Attacked. Raped. His blood mixed with saliva mixed with tears pooled in his hands. Without thinking he buried his face in his palms, smearing the mixture over himself. His screams had turned into barely audible sobs that heaved his body. He curled into a fetal position on the dinner table.
Father grabbed him by the hair and pulled him up so that their eyes were level. Father's were harsh and white. He imagined that his were red with tears and his crimson life-essence.
"Clean this mess up and get out of my sight." Father said. Calm now, as if he had just performed some stress-relieving exercise.
With that, he dropped him back onto the table and walked out of the dining room.
"One in six...I'll kill 'em all." He said.
And there, curled up, crying, tortured, violated, in agony, covered in his own blood and shame, he heard his father's words, and vowed that it would never come true.
He unconsciously felt with his tongue the small, bloody pits in the top of his mouth. They had healed slightly, and blood had congealed over the deep wounds that were still there, buried in his upper jaw. Soon the fangs would begin to grow back as they had in the past, but he did not fear them any more. For, as he had promised himself nights earlier, he would never let them leave him again.
The bullet still glinted playfully in the darkness, finding any light source to play off of its smooth form. So small a thing. Harmless, even. Unless one knew how to use it.
He picked up the small object and toyed with it slightly in his hand. It was surprisingly light. He had forgotten much about handling them. Father hadn't let him near a gun since he had grown into the mutant he was. For that was what his mutation was. Growth. He knew that now. He now saw through the blind bigotry that he father had tried so hard to instill in him and his brothers when they were young. For all that bigotry had brought him was pain.
One in six.
That phrase had echoed in his mind ever since the night he had heard it. It had grown and taken shape. Like him. He now knew what it meant. It had been a message.
Growth. Mutants were growing in numbers. They were victimized and hated. They would be tortured, killed for what they were. As he would someday be again if he did nothing to stop it. One in six teenagers would be tortured, violated, raped as he had been.
It had to stop. It was going to stop. And it would stop tonight, for him.
That had been the message on those words. The mission. He had to step forward now, or soon, there would be more pain in the world than was bearable for him even think about. People like his father had to be stopped.
Picking up the Colt Magnum revolver from the table beside him, he flipped open the breach and placed the bullet into the chamber. There were five that remained empty.
There was a loud snap as he cocked back the hammer.
It would both begin and stop tonight.
"Who's there?"
The voice behind him came from the doorway. It was haggard and heavy. The speaker was obviously tired and confused. And slightly alarmed.
He smiled. "It's me, father."
The was the sound a of sharp intake of breath in the darkness.
"Why are you in my office, boy?" he asked menacingly.
He turned to face his father. The man's silhouette was visible in the doorway. As he strained his eyes to adjust to the dark, he began to make out more clearly his father's features. They were contorted into a visage of anger.
Unwavering, he pointed the barrel of the gun at his father's head.
He saw his father stiffen.
"Boy, what the fu-"
"You've been angry for so long father," he said in a strong voice that he did not know he possessed, never once letting the gun waiver, "So angry. So much pain you cause. I can't let it go on."
He could see that his father was now torn between blind anger and panic. It was odd to see the two emotions that naturally coincided with each other now clash. Father had always dealt with fear and panic with rage. But now, rage was not an acceptable way to keep himself alive. Watching him battle with himself was like watching a fish flopping on hot pavement.
Father said harshly, "Now you see here, boy-"
"No!" he jumped from his chair, gun still aimed, "You listen, you disgrace of a human life! I've listened to you hatred for too long. All your talk about strong taking over the weak. About the master race. About all the bullshit that justifies you intolerance. I won't listen anymore! Now you listen to me."
He clicked off the safety. This time, his father could not push his panic aside with angry words.
"One in six, father. Do you remember that? One in six kids will be mutants soon. One in six kids will be treated like dirt. Torn open and tortured in their own homes! By people like you!"
He took a step towards his father. He squeezed the trigger slightly. His hands quivered.
"It starts tonight father! Starting tonight I will make sure that no one ever has to go through what you put me through ever again. They will not be hated as I have. Do you hear me, father?"
He took one final step. He could see his father clearly now. He face was solid with fear. His eyes were wide and shaking. He held his hands up in a gesture of helplessness.
"Please..." he whispered, "Please...son..."
Vengeance took hold on him. He felt it pierce through him like a sword. It was wonderful and terribly at the same time. It gripped his mind in its fist and propelled him forward. His fingers squeezed the trigger harder. He pressed the barrel of the gun into his father's forehead.
"DO...YOU...HEAR!?"
The gunshot echoed through the house. The walls were once again rocked by the sound of pain. The floors once again tasted blood. A body hit the wood with a loud thud.
But it would be for the last time.
*
"Good evening, I'm Leslie Grader with the 7 o'clock news. Tonight's story, a mutant suspect in a nearby town was gunned down last night by police after a long chase through the forest near the boy's home. It is understood by sources that the boy was responsible for the murder of his own father, an upstanding citizen in the town, on the very same night he was pursued by police. The call to police was made by neighbors, who said that they heard raised voices and a gunshot in the house before notifying the authorities. Though it has not been concluded as to whether or not the mutant boy did threaten the police to such an extent that such force was necessary, the local sheriff has assured us that he was dangerous enough and acting in such an irrational manner that fatal force was justified. In other news, are you prepared for the winter ahead? Stay tuned for this update that will..."