That Skinny Boy Sure Knew How to Kill

The kid liked heavy metal.

He drove while I sat in the passenger seat.

I wasn't too fond of the music.

Its intense waves sending vibrations through my body. And in my opinion it was irritating. I occupied myself by looking out the large window of the two door car. It was beautiful up in the mountains. Their wide spires were sharp enough to make the firmament cry. We were alone on this country road driving up the side of one of the peaks. The doctor lived up there.

The boy was no older than 15 and was driving. I couldn't help laughing. I myself was 32. I couldn't hold back the guilt. I found it strange. When you're a person like me, you can easily dismiss your emotions to get the job done. I shot a little girl in the face once. Never thought about it twice. She lived though. But I have left her scared. That's another story however.

So anyways, guilt was poking at me like a hobo with a damned stick on a Monday morning once your coffee spills all over you and you just got dumped by some ho. I was letting a 15 year old drive my car. I had not personal concern about my vehicle. It wasn't worth much. It was hot. Really hot. Comprised of stolen parts. So many stolen parts we couldn't give a brand name to the car. It was probably a Ford, and Mustang, and possibly Chevy, and maybe a little of Pontiac. I painted the whole thing a quick black to cover the rust and scars of putting a car together yourself. In other words, I didn't give a shit about the car.

I had known the kid though, forever. I lived on the streets when he was born. And soon, he would too. It was the first night of his life and his mother was fighting with the boyfriend.

"I fucked you so this baby was possible! It's fucking mine!"

"I don't want the shit anyway! But I'm not giving him to a fucker like you! He belongs to me. I shoved this thing outa my pussy!"

"You little bitch. Give me my fucking kid!"

I remember the noise. The gunshot. The cries of a baby. I knew the guy. He was a fucker. Killed plenty of people in his day including some of my best friends. A little pimp I guess you could call him. And now the kid's mother was on the list. She was dead now. Within minutes the guy kicked open the screen door and began an arrogant promenade down the street. Crying baby in arms. It just so happened I was having myself a joint on the corner when all this happened. That fucker has gone too far. I threw my joint into a garbage can and walked up to his face.

"You give me that kid, Red." That was his name.

"Fuck off. This is my fucking kid."

"And that woman's, you just blew away." I pointed to the house they lived in.

"She was a biiiiiittchh." He stopped walking away from me.

"And you're a fucking bassssstarddd."

"Fuck you."

I pulled out one of my few possessions; a sexy S&W revolver. It was my daddy's.

"The kid's mine now buddy. I claim it. Your girlfriends not the only one to die tonight fucker."

He froze when he beheld the weapon.

"Alright you dumbfuck. Put the gun away."

"Hand me the baby. I'm gonna take care of the kid. I CANNOT let a prick like yourself to be in possession of such an innocent being. "

He had no choice and placed the young kid on the ground. Wrapped in blankets.

"Good boy" I smiled and blew the fuckers gut out.

I picked up the boy. He was still crying. The gunshot? No.

Letting go of the little pride I had, I decided to go to a homeless shelter. Get the kid fed. We stayed there for a few days. He was a weird baby. Only cried when he shat himself or was hungry. Never from all the scary sounds that annoyed babies. He slept like a….baby. Only…babies don't sleep like the phrase describes. They always wake up and bitch for some milk. Or if a dog barks in the night, they wake up and wail. But this child did not. He slept like a baby was said to. Never waking up. Weeks went by in the shelter and I got a crazy idea. Was this kid deaf? He was.

As time went by, we ended up getting welfare because I "had a child" and we began living in an apartment. My life didn't improve though. Still did the same old shit to make money. Killing people. Selling weapons. Drugs.

The kid was smart. I named him, Quinn. He never learned how to sign. He didn't need to. It was bizarre. He used his eyes like a blind person uses their ears. He could read your face and lips. He would see reactions in the world that no one every notices. Like a bee flying in a pattern indicated aggression. Using this, he predicted that the girl swatting at it would get stung. He was right. Bitch cried for hours. He could write really fast. And learned how to speak a little. He didn't speak often though. He couldn't hear what he sounded like (which was impressively accurate) but it made him insecure.

We didn't eat much. Enough to survive. It made for a skinny child. He was bony, but Quinn sure knew how to fight. He has beat up more people than I have.

Quinn was 13 and fell in love. Some broad down the street. Deaf parents. She could talk to him. Taught him signing. Read a lot with him. She was kind of cute too.

And she's the reason for tonight. Quinn reassured me he could drive. And he could. Very alert. Very good vision. We were driving to some doctor's house. I asked why. He simple wrote me a note.

"He fucked up, that's why."

Last night the girl came over to our little apartment. Sobbing her eyes out. Quinn took her to his room. They were in there for hours. She finally left and the two kissed. Quinn looked happy. Quinn sure knew how to act though. She left and he was furious. He refused to talk about it. But the next thing I knew, he's dragging me into the car. He talked a little. Said he needed someone to have his back. It was sad. A kid should not thing of his father as back-up. I failed him. I had done no better than Red. But Quinn needed me right now. I couldn't live seeing him sad. Therefore, I was up for anything.

The kid liked heavy metal. We listened to it as we drove. The ironic thing is he couldn't even hear it. He said "I feel it" once. And that was it. We listened to his CD's in the car. I had no idea where we are going. He said we were only looking for a doctor. God knows how Quinn knew were the guy lived. It was dark now. No beautiful sky. It was quiet up there. We finally pulled a left onto an exit that lead straight to a driveway. Quinn turned into it and got out of the car. I followed. His veins were thick and were popping out of his arms. He was wrathful. The house was a one level Ranch style. No stairs. Quinn kicked down the door. The doctor must not have had a good reputation. It didn't look like he was poor. But, there was no art on the walls her expensive vases. I could have lived in a place like that. The first room we walked into was a living room. It was amusing. The little man was sitting there. Like he was in shock.

"Waddo you men want?" his face trembled and he threw money on the floor.

I laughed hysterically.

Catching my breathe I said "He can't hear you buddy. And put your fucking money away." I wiped tears from my eyes.

"You son of a bitch."

"Yeah" I replied "She was a fucking bitch ya know that?" I was beginning to see why Quinn didn't like him. However, I was under the impression we were just scaring the guy. Messing around. Making him pay in a humorous manner. But my heart skipped a beat when Quinn pulls my gun from his pants. He kept it concealed.

"Quinn!" I knew he couldn't hear me. I jumped for the gun but then he turned it on me. I could only weep. I created him. He was bred in violence. The very first night of his life, both his mother and father were shot down. He didn't know that though. Never questioned where his mother was. And he thought I was his father. Content with the fact that I wasn't going to stop him, he slowly turned the gun back to the doctor. He squinted.

"Oh please! Oh please! Don't!" he was a weak piece of shit. I would have shot him myself with good reason. Quinn walked up to him while he fished for something in his pocket. He stopped. Pulled the object from his pocket. It was a piece of paper. A picture. Of the girl. He put it in the doctor's face. Made him look at it. He dropped it and let it float down onto the man's lap. Backed away. There was nothing left on the doctor's shoulders afterwards. The picture was splattered with blood. The blood of the doctor. Quinn liked it. He grabbed the picture and slid it back into his pocket.

It was quiet. The mountains were a quiet place. I looked at him with teary eyes. I wasn't mad at him. He was like his dad.

"Its Ok" I told him. He read my lips.

We began to drive home. I was driving this time. We played no music. He looked out the window like I had. I tapped his shoulder so he would look at me.

"So…What was that all about?"

He read.

Quinn talked the whole time home. I never heard much from him. He screwed up a few sounds like "s" and "d" but he was ok. He told me the story. The girl wasn't poor. She was getting a bit of surgery on her fingers. They got crushed in her daddy's printing press. The doctor failed though. Not enough anesthesia he would have planned. Only enough to numb the girl. To close her eyes. She was aware though. Aware to the hands squeezing her breasts. Aware to the pain caused by the aggressive hands. Aware of the tongue sliding up and down her legs. She woke up at her house. Un able to do anything. Afraid to tell her parents. Only told Quinn.

Quinn sure knew how to get revenge.

Quinn was like his daddy.

Quinn sure could kill.

-Jake T. Edmunds