W O R R Y

a boy who loves his mother enough to give up the ultimate sacrifice

I had fallen off my bike, giving me a stinging cut that pierced my knee under the scorching sunlight. The cut didn’t seem big to her, but she still looked at me with consideration and sympathy. It pained me a lot, but I didn’t want her to see my eyes screaming out for help. Walking was a struggle as I was urged to limp, putting more pressure on my undamaged left leg, but I tried not to. I didn’t want her to see. I didn’t want her to worry.

By the time we arrived back home, my dad looked so drunk on the couch, appearing as if he was dead. I clicked on the local news as my mom readied my dinner. My dad doesn’t pay for the channels I prefer to watch, so I’m very well caught up on current events. There was a burglary at the house down the lane this morning, and there was an abduction of this girl, named Daw, who lived up the street. The news reporter finally mentioned the “Daily Murder” of a boy killed by a serial killer the police had failed, and are failing to catch. I wasn’t surprised; we live in a dangerous and forgotten neighborhood- an easy town for doing the crime, and not doing the time. My mom begged me to click off the television as they had begun to show frightening and graphic images of the killer’s victims. I obeyed her because I didn’t want her to worry about me having nightmares.

My mom made me mac and cheese, a family favorite, to help make me feel better about my throbbing leg. The meal tasted a bit overcooked, but I honored my mom’s generosity and effort. She put me to bed after washing off the dirt off of my cut, and bandaging it with cold anti-itch cream. She also brought me some soothing ice to calm my nerves. My leg ached liked there were needles puncturing my flesh. But I pulled through the pain because I didn’t want my mother to worry through the night. I didn’t want her to worry.

It was five in the morning. I had woken up from the feeling of pain coming from my knee once again. The pack of ice had numbed the pain all night, but all I saw was a pack of melted ice, warm as my blood. I tried standing up, but the thought of bending my knees pushed me down as I cried for pain, covering my wails of sorrow with my hands to prevent my mother from hearing. Her room was just down the hall. I had to be quiet, or else she’d run and scream over with a worried look on her face. No, I had to be quiet. I didn’t want her to worry.

With each step, the wooden floors creaked beneath me. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. I had tried to not put too much pressure on my injured leg, but I couldn’t resist. By the time I reached the banister, I was dumbfounded. I thought I could carefully reach the end of the stairs, but found myself dragging my body quietly down the steps.

I reached the refrigerator only to find out that there’s no more ice packs. I stared down at my knee, looking helplessly, throbbing, and forcing me to sob. I looked out the window above the sink; the sun illuminated a beautiful pattern of sunlight across the half-lit sky. I poured myself a glass of water, only to realize the front door behind me had been broken into.

“Don’t move, and no one will get hurt. Understand me?” a man with a rough voice said as he pushed a gun to the back of my head. I nodded obediently.

“Get away from him. Now,” a polite woman said to the man, while I was still facing away from them, staring through the window at the sunrise. Her voice reminded me of my mom. She was my mom. And as soon as I felt the cold metal of the gun slide away from my head and towards my mother, I jumped on the man, ignoring the pain slithering through my leg.

Two shots had been fired. One of them ended up in the wall. The other ended up in my stomach. It seemed as though the pain from my leg didn’t matter anymore. After all, it was just a scratch compared to this. I tried not crying; I tried to not show my mother I was crying, but I couldn’t as a gush of tears raining down like a waterfall came down my cheeks. I streaked out wails of pain, but this time, as loud as I could possibly can.

My mother had tackled the man, as she tried to stop him from shooting my drunk dad who came walking down the stairs with a shot of vodka in his hands. It seemed as though my dad was going to die from liver cancer, but the gunshot wounds sped up the process.

By the time sirens came rushing through town, the gunman was gone, and my mother, not shot, ran to me.

“Does it look bad?” I asked my mother.

“No it doesn’t, Sweetie. Just hang on,” she said quietly and peacefully, attempting to calm me down as she was applying pressure on my wound.

“Do I look bad?”

“No! You’re fine!” she said screaming, now becoming furious, and trying to hold in her tears just as I had. “Don’t worry, Sweetie. Just don’t worry. You’re going to be fine!” she said once again, now crying on my chest.

“No, Mom. You don’t worry. Just don’t.” And what seemed like death, didn’t hurt as much. Because when I woke up, all around me were “healers” they called themselves, all dressed in white. And my mother was there, lying next to me. “I told you not worry,” I said.

“I worried. I’m sorry, Sweetie.”

“I worried too. I forgive you, Mommy.”

Author's Note

I wrote this story back when I was 13 in 8th grade. Although it's not the best story I have ever written, the message holds near and dear to my heart.