Murder shouldn't be

 

My father came home today.

No.

First let me tell you where I am writing this entry.

I am in a Union holding house, nicer than my old house. It has blue walls and blue furniture. There was no paper or pens, but I managed to bring my own. I’m sitting on what would be a comfortable bed if I weren’t so used to my old bed. I have tried to get comfortable enough to write this, but after countless try’s to get comfortable lying down I have resorted to simply sitting at the desk with a light. I felt like I could write easier while lying down, my emotions find it easier to flow out, yet when sitting down, it makes me feel to serious. Now to explain why I am here.

My father came home today; he had blood over his hands and face and fresh cuts along his arm. His thin arms looked tired, thin arms like mine. I resembled my father a lot. We had the same features apart from the eyes, his were deep set and tired, mine were bright and living. I looked at him from the stairs, my father never looked up to me he just headed into the living room and I heard him pick up the glasses and throw them at the wall. There was silence after that for a few hours. I headed downstairs and I heard my dad whisper “Happy birthday”. I froze on the spot, I did not want to know who’s blood it was but I could guess, and I didn’t want my blood to be mixed into it. I stepped into the living room, “How are you father?”

My father turned to look at me and smiled, “I’m good. How glad I am you’re more like me than your mother.”

I asked him what he meant and he just stared at me. I sat down next to him and noticed the glasses smashed in a pile on the floor by the wall. My father took my hand in his bloody one. I shuddered at the feel of the fresh blood squeeze between my fingers. My father noticed this and withdrew his hand,

“Sorry about that, I’ll clean off and we can have dinner. Is pizza alright?”

I nodded as he walked away. I dashed toward the phone and dialed the emergency services, a dull voice replied to my plead with the same questions as if it was on a script.

“Please, my father came home and he has blood all over him. I think he murdered my mum!”

“What is your emergency?”

“ I think my father murdered my mum!”

“What is your mum’s name?”

“Angela Ross.”

There was a long pause

“Ok, and where are you situated?”

“Anderson Lane, No. 50.”

“Help is coming.”

And with that the line went.

By the time the police had turned up we were halfway through the pizza. They knocked on the door and I jumped at the sound of it, I thought they were never going to come. My father stood up off the couch and headed toward the door. I heard him open the door and serious conversation started. I didn’t hear any words, just noises. My father shut the door and came in with two policemen behind him, dressed in their blue trench coats. My father sat down next to me and took my hand once more, this time his hand was clean. He looked into my eyes,

“Son, I know you’re wondering about the blood. The truth is it is your mum’s. But before you hit me in anger know this, your mum no longer supported Him. It had to be done.”

I stopped short in my breathing. I stared at the policemen.

“Arrest him! He just confessed it! Do something!”

The policemen didn’t move and my father rose and stood next to them, he started to say something but I stopped him short.

“It is the law, he broke it. He must be punished!”

My father shook his head,

“Your mum was a rebel Michael.”

“Nevertheless you are a murderer!”

“No, you see. It’s fine, they are even going to pay me for it. It turns out your mum was a big person to the rebels, she was important to them.”

“And she was important to me father!”

“These men are going to take you to a new home while I go up to the Capitol.”

I looked at my father confused. And for a moment I saw him as a human being.

“Capitol? Why?” The Capitol was the main city of the Union, it was where He was. It was a two day flight, if that was the way my father was travelling, and then a day’s travel of train down underground to a secret location. Only the people who worked at the capitol and the automated system on the train knew where it was, and most of the time, the reason for your visit would be for death.

My father puffed out his chest and said proudly.

“I am going to be awarded a medal, the medal of Pride actually, for stopping a rebellion force. Your mum was the leader of a big Rebellion force, though they would have preferred her alive, the Union are giving me a medal and a house of my choice none the less.”

I sat down back on the couch, seeing my father as the cog he was. He offered a good bye hug, but I walked by him toward the car that was waiting to take me to a fake home. While sitting in a car I overheard one of the policemen reassure my father.

“He is young, but soon he will understand what a great deed you did.”

Great deed? My father was a murderer and I only wished I would not have to see him again, but what could I argue against. It was the way people thought now, you kill a bad man you get rewarded. Even if truly they weren’t bad people, they just had their own opinion.

I thought of my mum on the way over, her soft golden hair that was long flowing, her blue eyes and her fully blown lips. She was a beautiful mum, but the more I tried to focus on her beauty, the more I only saw a screaming face, beaten in repeatedly smothered in blood, and left to the elements in some field amongst dead crops. I vow now to write a book, for my mum. I will tell how cruel this system is, people may view me as a rebel, but I view myself as an artist.

In a world where the lies swim as truth, a woman stands against the tide. Fighting for what she believes in, so other people can believe.