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“I’m in…a lot of pain, son,” she said, coughed again. “I need you to…help me”—(I pushed myself into a stand at once)—“Atticus…please…shoot me”—(I shook my head intensely; my eyes were round, blazing)—“Give me peace…let me…find your brother and sisters…in Heaven.”
The wall stopped me, but even still I thought somehow, I could keep backing up. Without knowing how I’d gotten there, I sat on the floor with my back pressed against the wall. The corner to my left beckoned me in my peripheral vision, and I wanted to crawl into it and cry for my mother.
“You can’t ask me to do this,” I finally spoke. “How can you ask me to do this?!” I cried; three tears slipped down my face; I wiped them away promptly, trading heartache for resentment.
Still, my mother found the strength to smile.
Her eyes fluttered for a moment, her long lashes swept her bloodied face; her breathing settled evenly. Her long hair, soaked in blood, lay around her head in sticky waves. Slowly her eyelids broke apart and she looked at her son again.
“Don’t let them take my life, too,” she managed to say without having to breathe between words. “You are my son, and I’d rather you take my life than to lay here and die slowly from wounds they inflicted on me—don’t give them that right, Atticus; don’t let them have everything.” Her strength abandoned her again, and her breathing became labored.
I looked at the corner, my gaze fixed on the thin strip of shadow running vertically from ceiling to floor where one wall met the other, and I saw that little boy sitting there, curled in on himself with his bony arms and little hands covering his head; his legs were red and inflamed; he could feel the skin had been broken on the back of his thighs. I saw my mother lean over and take him into her arms. I saw the little boy sobbing into her neck; his arms and legs wrapped around her. I saw my father, the tallest man I’d ever seen, with thick, curly black hair and fierce dark eyes. ‘Touch my son again and I’ll kill you myself!’ And then I saw my father’s colossal hand soar toward them like a wrecking ball, striking my mother across the face with a thunderous blow. And then I saw myself tumbling to the floor, my mother breaking my fall. But still, my mother was defiant and strong.
With the little boy gathered in her arms, mother and son pressed into that corner, she glared up at my father boldly, unafraid. ‘You’re weak—weak. And you’ll always be weak, a coward, a bastard.’
The little boy feared his mother’s words would only provoke his father more. But his father left the room, slamming the door behind him, rattling the house. My mother stroked her son’s hair, kissed his head, held him close. ‘I would do anything for you, Atticus. He won’t hurt you anymore—we leave this place tomorrow morning after he leaves for work. I would do anything for you…”
“Please, Son…”
When I looked back at my mother lying on the floor, I could barely see her through my blinding tears.
Heaving myself away from the wall, I drew my gun from my pants and stormed over to her, my hands and legs shaking, my heart breaking into a million unidentifiable pieces, the thread of my humanity unraveling.
Standing over my mother, I pointed the gun at her head.
Softly, she shut her eyes.
A shot rang out.
And that little boy who had always lived inside of Atticus Hunt, grew up in a shattering instant and had forever lost his innocence.
THAIS & (ATTICUS)
The moment Atticus stopped speaking and looked me in the eyes, I crumpled to my knees in-between his legs. My chest shuddered around a ravaged heart. I wanted to take him into my arms, but he was not ready for that. There was more.
I sniffled back a flood of tears; I regretted, more than anything, ever asking him to end my life for me; I regretted more than anything not telling him I was a virgin and letting him take my innocence. Now I understood. I understood everything. How could I have done that? How could I have put that burden on him? Reopened such painful wounds?
“Oh, Atticus…What did you do then?” I said, poignantly. “What did you do, love?”
“I went into the bedroom where my sisters were,” he said, surprisingly calm, “and I carried them, one at a time into the kitchen and laid them near my mother—not too close though because I was…”—he paused—“…I didn’t want Tara and Josie to see her like that. So, when I laid them down, I arranged their heads so they were facing away from her.”
My chest shuddered with emotion; I thought I might vomit.
“And then I covered them all with sheets.”
(I doubted my strength the more I told Thais; I could feel it slipping away, but I went on despite it.)
“And then I went after the men.” He stopped, lowered his gaze.
“One of the men—Casey—had gone on that supply run with me,” he said. “He was waiting outside the house. I told him I needed to be alone with my family, and he respected that. Casey…he might’ve been a decent man,” he said, his words laced with regret for a past he could not change.
When I realized what he was about to admit, I touched him, because to resist any longer was impossible. I raised a hand in front of his face, my fingers curled loosely, and I brushed them across the lines of his forehead.
“Tell me,” I whispered. “It’s okay.”
Atticus shut his eyes.
“I shot Casey where he stood in the backyard; just put my gun to his forehead and I shot him dead. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look back. I didn’t think of him as I walked away. I killed a man who, as far I knew, had never hurt anyone. I took a man’s life based on guilt by association and my ‘bad feeling’. How could he be innocent? I asked myself as I raised the gun on him. If I didn’t kill him, he would’ve committed the same crimes. I believed it in my heart.” He paused. “But I judged him. I played judge, jury and executioner—I played God—and I killed that man in cold blood. I lost my mother, my sisters, and myself all in the same night.”
