If you don't shoot

Boy licked the top of his finger lightly and turned over onto page 53. Flattening the face with the soft palm of his hand, his long thin fingers appreciated the abrasions of ink that made up the magical world he was immersed in.

Way above him, surrounding pine trees swayed in the cold spring air, their dynamic shadows fighting with the morning sun and painting Boy’s pale skin with the pattern of a golden zebra. He lay back in the dewy grass and looked up, watching the trees dance like women in dresses more intricate than any designer could craft. An icy windchill breezed over the world, and while a white halo of frost was forming on Boy’s unbrushed hair, he didn’t take his eyes away from the mesmerising choreography above him. He wanted to keep going though, demanding himself to read up to the end of the chapter. He picked up the book once more and held it above his eyes, starting from the top of page 53. The persistent sun continued to pour its caramelised rays onto his little face, and his eyelids were increasingly becoming heavier.

With his head tenderly nodding forward, Boy put the book down in the grass, no hope anymore to finish the chapter. Sitting politely next to where he placed the book, a small bush stole his attention, sporting just one French marigold. Recently matured, its colour was bright, and it had healthy petals piercing out of its centre, an image of vitality and ombre. In one swift, sleepy move, Boy flipped onto his front, and lay with his stomach pressing against the grass. He moved closer to the adolescent flower, and as he squinted and moved his head one and which way, he inspected the intricacies of the marigold so intimately he could strain to see each individual cell.

Continuing to gently stroke the dozens of petals protruding in a perky manner and full of life themselves, he whispered in encouragement “Shine little sunny sun!”

-

A thick Irish accent abruptly interrupted the new friendship, howling from the top of the hill, “Boy get oehp ‘ere aye!”. Not bothering to put a face to the words, Boy plucked the delicate flower and jumped to his feet, ignoring the sticky sap tainting his fingers, and dashed up through the field of emerald green pasture.

The book sat lonely among the tall, swaying grass; forlorn, yet somehow nestled gently and comfortably.

Once he had made it to the top of the hill, where sat a tall rickety barn, Boy rounded the corners of the ever-open wooden doors. He tucked his small friend into the left pocket of his coat and patted it to assure its safety, before rounding another corner and presenting himself to his father. He gave his father a stern look in an attempt to stifle a struggle, but inside his lungs were burning and all he wanted to do was huff and puff.

With furrowed eyebrows like the plains of land they had just prepared for the new season, his father grunted towards him, “C’mon mate. Didn’t call ya up ‘ere for noffin.”

Boy fumbled as he gained his footing and hustled over to his father who was now hunched over a white lamb, pinned to the floor by his huge hand and stumpy left leg. His father’s old, Catholic-style necklace of Jesus Christ hanging bloody on a cross swung back and forth against his chest. It didn’t make sense then either. Religion didn’t fit his father. He was just too mean for it. Boy avoided staring at it to avoid being called “scrawny” again, or “flimsy”, or the like.

He knew why the lamb’s legs were flailing. He knew why the lamb was squirming like a half-dead worm. He knew why he was called to the shed, and he knew that it would be easier if he eschewed any eye contact. Perhaps it felt more humane. Perhaps he just didn’t have time for ‘making friends’, as his father would say.

For a brief instant, the two caught a glimpse of one another. The boy’s innocence was reflected in the trying eyes of the white lamb.

“I’m naht going to be arooehnd fahrever!” Boy’s father tilted his head back, raising his bushy eyebrows to hint at the weapon sat behind him.

In a possessive wave of stoic resignation, or maybe in a yearning for validation, the boy walked over to the weapon. As he made his way across the rotting wooden floorboards, he was biting his lip so hard that he could taste the cold metallic flavour of his own blood trickling down the back of his throat. Boy was sweating bullets as he used all of his strength to lift his heavy intentions onto his shoulder.

Clear as day, he found himself pointing a metal object, reminiscent of the hilt of a sword, towards the forehead of the young lamb. ‘Just stay bloody still’, his mind told him, cocked with warmth and loaded with rage. The innocent lamb persisted under the impending humidity of its imminent fate.

The first years of his life, Boy didn’t much see the death of the animals during the season. He’d never seen the harvesting of easter lamb, just cleaned up the blood. As it washed away, he would appreciate its rich beauty; coagulating quickly with a deep red exuberance.

But he was a man now.

Boy’s heart was beating vocally, and in that moment, it was all the sound in the world. In an instant, Boy’s heartbeat doubled in tempo, and before he could realise the sound wasn’t his heart, James’ galloped over to the pair and grabbed the shotgun that was shaking in his brother’s arms.

Boy didn’t let the shotgun go.

Perhaps he was frozen in fear, or his adrenaline had formed a blind aggression in him. Either way, he didn’t put up easily, holding on to the weapon as if he was glued to it and reaching his pointer finger for the trigger. James clawed for the gun, leaving cuts and gashes all over Boy’s virgin arm. Boy wanted to fight back, but he didn’t dare let go of the gun. He swung blindly, but without landing any hits. James snarled and barged into his younger brother, throwing him across the floorboards. Now without a gun, Boy retreated to the far wall and tucked his legs into his chest, cowering under his bleeding forearm and shutting his eyes tight. He said a silent prayer as the shot rang out.

-

The drumming seemed to go on for a lifetime, sending a dark echo across the endless paddocks. Birds fled their nests on the roof of the barn, leaving their chicks behind to chirp longingly. Feeding cattle lifted their heads, startled, before going back to their hay.

“Onya son.”

Boy opened his eyes. James had dropped his father’s weapon and was standing victorious before the old man. His forehead was absent of sweat, but he wiped it anyway with his fat, hairy arm. His face was unchanged as if stuck in an endless gaze of deadly pride; swollen and blue, cold as ice. Men like James don’t cry into the arms of their fathers.

Unnoticed, Boy stood up and made his way to the ever-open shed doors. Standing in the oversized entryway, he looked longingly out over the hills of pasture before him. Beginning to walk down the hill, a thin, prickly breeze brushed past him and scratched against his skin. He shivered, and his hands resided into the pockets of his coat. Searching for warmth, or perhaps safety, Boy pressed his fists tight into the dense leather material. He felt a moist coldness under the knuckle of his left hand. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and stared at the sticky sap that had tainted his fingers.

Laying down in the long grass, he looked up at the sun, glinting between the tall pine trees that surrounded him. Like the lamb and the flower, Boy had paid for his innocence.

At least it didn't cost his life.