Mourning Man

The Mourning Man

The man sprinted up the muddy slope dodging small patches of clay, his lesson already learnt further down the slope. He arrived next to the small corpse and knelt down, his knees soon soaked in blood. He cradled the small girl’s face between his shoulder and his chin, sobbing the whole time. Screaming and cursing to the gods who took his daughter away from him. He slowly let her body fall to the ground, her body hitting the ground with a dull thud. He bowed his head, the tears slowly rolling off his chin onto the ground, and placed her hands over her chest. He screamed and shook his hands, vowing revenge to those who had destroyed his life and took his little girl from him. His chest felt hollow like someone had just ripped his heart and soul out and left him a bloody mess.

He packed his things and strode to his car. As he drove into the sunset, his clothes dripped mud and water into the car’s plush interior. When he arrived at his destination he ripped the door open and loped to the house’s door. He smashed his foot into the woodwork and strode inside, greeted with a site of a drug addict sitting in an armchair stoned out of his brains. The boy jumped backwards crashing into the wall causing stuff to go flying to the ground. Before the boy could get back up the man had grabbed him around the throat and dragged him into the kitchen. He threw the man onto the bench and ripped the cord off of a nearby electric jug and tied the boy’s arms to the bench then he let him go. The boy thrashed around screaming almost choking on his tears and saliva. The man grabbed the kitchen knife and a plastic container of salt. Several hours later when the man left the druggie’s apartment, the mourning man felt no better than he did when he had entered, leaving a bloody mess covering the kitchen. Revenge is not sweet, it only leaves a sour taste in ones mouth.