Hampton, 3

Danette S. Hampton

Period 1, Mrs. Kemp

English 1H

March 13th, 2009

The Quelling

Lethargically, I pushed my way across the floor. The grimy linoleum was nothing compared to where I had been laying for the past year. Driven mad by the only light left inside, I stumbled around to find the way around all the obstacles and seek vengeance upon he who did this to me.

The journey to find him had stretched me over hundreds of miles, most of which I had already traveled, but it seemed like nothing to me. The desire in my heart burned intensely with every inch I pulled myself - with every inch that brought me back to my past. As I finally came to my final destination, the desire that had built up so high inside of me started forming into adrenaline, which flowed through my decaying remains.

He sat on his ever-growing butt with a nearly empty bottle of rum in his hand. His head was resting on his fat hand, stabilized by his elbow grounding itself onto the table. The television in front of him was not blaring; the football game was not as important to him as he told everyone it was.

I watched him patiently, for his final movement before he completely passed out. As his eye lids began drooping, and his breathing became slow and steady, I crawled to him. I grabbed a chair from the other side of the table and moved it next to him. I collapsed in the chair and glared.

“Johnny,” I sang to him, “oh, Johnny.” I reached for his hand and put it softly in mine. “Johnny, I think it’s time for you to go to bed.” I pouted my lip and waited for his reply.

“Okay,” he mumbled while hopping off the bar stool. I followed him to his bed room.

I laid him down on the bed comfortably and cupped his cheek in my hand. “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny,” I whispered. “It’s funny how stupid you are sometimes. How uninformed with the world you are. You did nothing more than execrate me.”

“Natasha?” Johnny slurred. His breath reeked of enough rum for one week alone. His eyes, trying hard to focus, were blank – just like the one night. I remembered that night, a year ago all over again.

The cold sweat beat down my perfect face with the tears of hatred mixed in. The moonlight was my only guide to my torturer, whom carried a small weapon in his right hand. I looked him in the eyes, his blue eyes locking with my brown and blue eyes, and I tried hard to escape his horribly strong grip. His hand was going to form bruises on my wrists the next day – if there was a next day.

There wasn’t one.

Johnny slapped me across the face. “Be quiet!” he yelled, his voice slightly slurred and his breath smelling. “Be quiet or I’ll shoot you!”

I begged, pleaded, screamed – prayed for someone to hear me. “Johnny, don’t do this to me! Why would you do this to me? I love you! I love you!” It was too late in the night – no one around to hear my cry as his sharp weapon – most likely found in his kitchen – slid in and out of my body, slowly destroying me.

“That’s right, baby,” I cooed as I returned to the present.

“What are you – !” He stopped abruptly, a gasp saying the end.

I slid the knife out of his stomach.

“Be glad I didn’t stab you fifty times.”