Violence as a Trait

A story based around one sister's obsession with peace.

"I don't want him exposed to violence," says my sister, "so we generally don't watch the news when he's awake and won't talk about or watch anything with even the slightest reference." Her words hiss around her emphatic grimace.

Our mother and I exchange looks. "So when do you plan on introducing it?" I wonder, glancing out the window to see her Wyatt playing with the neighbor kid, Mike.

"As late as possible." She tells me primly.

My eyes remain on the kids' game, I have to frown to hide my smirk. Mother, however, beats me to the punch. I started to open my mouth, when she laughs and points out the window, "Looks to me like he already has discovered the pleasure."

"In fact, he's taken to it quite well." I add, unable to smother the twinkle of a snicker in my tone.

"What -" Alyssa demands, interrupting herself with a gasp when her eyes fall on the two boys sword fighting with sticks. Wrenching the sliding door open, she screeches his name, commanding his entrance.

Watching him walk dolefully inside, I truly feel sorry for my nephew. "Mike," I call when I notice him following, "You'd probably be better off heading home. I'm sure Wyatt will be coming to see you again."

"Oh, no, he won't." She storms. Her earrings are shivering, she's trembling so tremendously.

As he crosses the threshold, he checks his grandma's and my expressions. I do my best to convey that he's not in trouble with us. If we'd instilled any confidence, it gave way under his mother's glaring ire. "Just what do you think you were doing out there?"

I glance at Mother. Her expression provides no insight, the same stoic face I remember from trying to explain my own misdeeds. Wyatt has his hands deep in his designer jeans. He has never looked so much his age as now, in all his eight years. "Playing Pirates, Mom, that's all."

"Where'd you get that idea from?" Her voice is as unstable as our father's would be before he took his belt off. Mom's eyes seem to gleam with the memory, or, perhaps, I'm only hoping that's what was in her eyes.

"School. There was a story about them." His voice got quieter with every syllable. For a moment, it felt as if I was watching one of my own memories.

"Swords and theft included?" Her fists clenched and relaxed as many times as her heart did in those moments she awaited an answer. The muscle in her cheek dances. She's a spitting image of Dad.

"Yeah..." We could barely hear his whisper over the lawn mower next door.

"Why didn't you tell me about it?" She shrieks and I look at Mom.

"'Cause no one died and I knew you'd have a cow! I didn't want you to come and yell at the teacher again!" He paused, looking at me and my mother again, looking defiant more than hopeful now, "it's embarrassing, Mom!"

I didn't register what I was seeing before I acted, so I was surprised to find my hand closed around my sister's wrist, which she was trying to pull away - the only advantage of no college schooling and a manual labor job. Her eyes were as wide as her son's had been a mere second ago. "Slap your son and I will remind you what real violence looks like." I tell her quietly.

Letting go, I notice Mom relaxing her grip on the chair and Wyatt had begun to shake now. "The lesson her, my mother tells him, "is to be kind with your words and say them before anger grows around them. Do you understand?" He nods. "Please repeat it in your own words, then."

"Tell people the stuff that bothers you, kindly, and always be kind." Wyatt tells her, glancing at her mother's smoothly stunned face.

"Very good - do we lay hands on a person when we have a problem with them?"

"No, unless you're trying to defend another person."

"Excellent. you must be the brightest in the class." She smiles warmly and attempts to draw him into a hug.

Before he succumbs, he shakes his head. "No, but I try."

"That's even better. you're a wonderful boy, Wyatt." He allows her to fold her thin arms around him.

"Love you, grandma," He says, steps back, and then turns to look at his mom. "Sorry, I hurt your feelings, Mom."

She looks from me to Mother, and then back at me, before crouching before her only child. "I'm sorry I over-reacted. Love you, son."

"Love you too, Mom. Can I go get Mike now?" She nods and he doesn't waste another second before skidding through the door.

Mother closes it and smiles at us. "Problem solved."

Author's Note

I really tried to focus on this particular situation's elements (the situation 'now,' how it came to be, and the peak it reached). How'd I do?