A cool breeze entered the wooden home through a cracked door, as Erron sat on the floor of his bedroom. He practiced spinning his wooden toy gun on his finger, the gun falling to the floor with a smack.
"Erron!" A rough voice called from across the house. Erron jumped, quickly standing up and kicking the toy gun under his cot, the click of the man's boots on the wooden floor getting closer to his room. The door bursted open with great force, a large man stepping through to his room. "What did I tell ya about that damn noise?" The man questioned.
"I'm sorry dad, I was just practicin'. I wanted-"
"I don't care!" His father shouted. The smell of strong whiskey leaked from his words, his scraggly beard wet from his reckless drinking. He walked towards Erron, the spurs of his boots making a loud jingle with each stepped. As he got face to face with Erron, he quickly slapped the young boy across the face. Erron fell to the ground, his father looking down upon him. "I will not ask ya again! Keep this god damn room silent." With that, his father left the room, slamming the door on his way out. Erron kept himself on the ground, pulling his knees to his chest, and sobbing quietly. As he sobbed, he looked under his cot, seeing his toy gun. He kept looking upon, sniffling and wiping his eyes, getting an idea.
Erron sat on his cot, waiting until complete darkness. He watched through his window, the sun set and the crickets began to chirp. He quietly planted his feet to the ground, opening the door and walking his way to his father's room. His father was asleep, gripping his whiskey bottle in his hand. Erron silently walked into the moonlight bathed room, his eyes on his father's revolver. Erron slowly snaked his fingers around the handle, pulling it out as quietly as possible. Opening the chamber, Erron saw the gun had only four bullets left. Enough to catch himself some food, he thought. He holstered the gun in his waistband, opening the drawer beside him. He found eight more bullets scattered in the messy drawer, snatching them and keeping them in his pocket. He looked up at his father's sleeping face, one last time.
"Shoot the bastard." The small voice in his head called to him. His hand began to reach for the gun, but he hesitated. With a sigh, he turned around and walked back to his room. He gathered what he thought he needed; putting on a denim jacket, his boots, his black bandana, and finally he dawned a brown leather hat, a gift from his mother years ago. Erron took one final look around his room, memories flooding his head. Love for some time, but nothing but abuse as of late. He shook his head, and hopped through his window, landing on the mud outside the house. He made his way to the back of the house, where he and his father kept their horses tied up.
"Come on, boy. We got new places to go." Erron whispered to the animal, unravelling his lead. He hopped up onto the saddle, looking at his father's horse next to him. "Sorry girl, I can't take both of ya. Dad will take better care of you." Erron smiled at the other horse, grabbing his horses lead and riding him away from his childhood, and towards a new life.