Untitled introduction

This is the introduction to a YA novel that I still have yet to write! It’s, perhaps, too brutal and adult in its tone, so I have yet to fully explore what I can do with it; however, I do like the way it flows, so here you go: first post in FAR TOO LONG! (Sorry!)


The metal was more cold in his hand than he thought, harder to hold as well, but not so much that he couldn’t keep it level or point it in a straight line at the target. He lay as steadily on the floor as he could, calming his pounding heart, struggling to keep the gun upright in spite of his ragged breath.

It was funny, but there was a sharp metallic taste in his mouth that only seemed to be there when he breathed in and out; it danced across his tongue and left a stale flavour trail behind, a memory: unpleasant and greasy. His unsteady hands reached forward and held the Webley more firmly, his fingers small, but nonetheless capable of pulling the hammer back and cocking it, ready to fire.

The hammer clicked back and the cylinder slid as easily into place as innocence trickling down a leg. He felt so powerful at that moment he could have taken on the world and won. The strength he felt at not only holding the gun properly, but actually pointing it at someone, someone who had spent months taunting him and making his life a living hell; well, that strength was sudden and fluid inside of his stomach and he felt his manhood shrivel in fear even as his fingers tightened on the trigger in anger.

The explosion replayed inside his mind in slow motion as he watched the result of a finger twitch.

The tearing apart of the beer can: it’s spasmodic dance across the floor had been comical in comparison to the ripping open of meat and bone that fountained in front of him now. The scream hurt, so loud was it inside the warehouse, yet he didn’t cover his ears: this was deserved.

He saw his tormenter, the rapist of his soul, the bastard of his dreams, crawl pathetically in the dust and blood of his own uncertainty over the floor. So many weeks of inflecting pain and humiliation were magnified in that one split second of revenge, that the boy pulled the trigger again, ignoring the twisted pain in his broken wrist and the ragged pulse of his heart’s rhythm.

This was justice.

This was revenge.

This needed to be done.

The gun raised again. This time it was not at the mewling, blood soaked victim collapsed against the wall, but hot and burning against his own throat. It only hurt for a short while, only until his finger pulled back on the trigger for the third time, then there was silence and blissful peace such as he had not experienced in years…


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