Weapons

Don! I yell as I come running out of the small schoolhouse. It's Don's birthday today. He's 8 years old; only 1 year younger than I am. “Happy Birthday”, I yell as I jump in the air and drop my book. I remember I'm wearing the white garment my aunt made me a few weeks ago. I love this gown, it makes me feel like a princess because of the beautiful flower embroidery my aunt hand sewed herself. The attire is shorter than what our mother allows me to wear to school. Don approaches as I'm picking my book up.“It's supposed to be a secret,” Don replies as he helps me stand. “I'm sorry, I'm just excited,” I say, while staring at the tall meadow beneath me. The heat from the sun is making the prairie appear yellow, and my skin turn pink; it'll be summer break in 2 weeks. “Mother states birthdays are just another day of the year and are not to be made a big deal. I would rather not get in trouble,” Don replies with a serious look on his face. He parted his dark brown hair to the right. I think he parts his haircut to that side to take the attention away from the birthmark on his left cheek. Don's wearing the same brown slacks and suspenders he wore yesterday. The only thing that's different about his outfit today than yesterday is his white-collared shirt. It seems it's his go-to outfit for school tall white socks, brown dress shoes, brown slacks and suspenders. “Please don't tell mother I told you happy birthday”. “Don't worry, Willow, I won't. She doesn't remember today's my birthday anyway,” Don says with a slight frown on his face. Don and I turn toward the street and walk home. I turn back to take another look at the school shack. It's smaller than most; it only has four classrooms and two loos. The school house has a brick outside, and a roof made of wooden boards. There's only one door at the entrance rather than most school houses that have the double doors. I proceed toward Don and grab his hand as we tread through the tall grass in front of the school shed. Fortunately, we only live 20 minutes away from home. Some of our classmates have to walk farther than we do to get to and from school. It's quiet. Don hasn't said a word. I can feel the heat from the sun beating on my arms and legs. “It's hot” I say. Don just turns and looks at me. I can see our home now. Our small white home with our wooden steps leading up to the front door. Our home has three bedrooms, and the loo is outside. There are only two windows in the entire house. Our parents aren't the most wealthy, but they do what they can to take care of us. To want any extra or to complain would make us ungrateful. It would mean we don't appreciate what they've given to us. We appear to approach the frontal steps of our home. “I hope father isn't home,” Don replies. “Why?” I ask as I turn to look at him with concern. We launch to move up the face steps. The steps creek and wine as we go up them. The wood is old and has gone through a lot of weathering. “Because I scuffed my shoes,” Don responds with his head down, watching the steps as we walk up them. I didn't notice. He must've scuffed them on our road home. I was so lost in my brain, I don't remember the walk home. I glance at Don. Likewise, I'm speechless. We get to the last step and I let go of his hand. I stroll up to the tall and thin wooden door of our home and open it. As I step in, Don follows behind me. I see to my left and peek at my father sitting on the sofa in the living room. He's holding a tankard half full of brew. He drinks ale when he wakes until the moment his head hits the pillow. Most men drink malt; I've only met a few that don't. I glance to my right and look at my mother in the kitchen, cutting vegetables for dinner. She's using the sustained carrots that were harvested from our garden last year. The gains in the backyard aren't quite ripe yet. The wooden floor wines as she moves to the other side of the gallery to grab a preserved jar of green beans. My mother has long, dark brown hair and big blue eyes, just like mine. She's pale and taller than most mothers. She has the most lovely hips that come out farther than her waist. Her hands are thin and gentle. She's beautiful. All I can hope for is that one day I will be just as pretty as her. I watch as her knee-high flowy red gown moves with her while she walks back to the cutting board. I want a wardrobe like that when I'm older. “Boy!” our father yells just before he gets on his feet. He stands tall with his short-sleeved white collared shirt untucked, tan dress slacks, and brown dress shoes. He's tall with light brown hair parted to the right and tan from working construction. Furthermore, he slams his tankard down on the coffee table. Ale splashes on the table, the old wooden floor, and the sofa my father just stood from; he's drunk. “What did you do to your shoes' boy?!” my father shouts at Don angrily. I turn to look at Don, his face is as white as the clouds on a hot sunny day. I'm scared for Don. It scares me and my brother when my father gets angry. Don stands there speechless…frozen in terror. I want to say something, but my mouth won't move. I wish to grab Don's hand and run, but my arms and legs won't budge. My feet are planted on the wooden floor like roots from a tree buried in the dirt. I can smell the ale on my father's breath and body as he shouts at Don. My father is fourteen feet away from me and Don. I hear our youngest sister “Rose” from our room trying to open the door. She's three years old and too short to reach the door handle. Even if she could get the door handle, she still wouldn't be able to get out of our area. There's a lock on the front of the door my mother had caused herself. There's a lock on the outside of Don's door my mother had made as well. My father walks toward Don. His feet are hitting the wooden floor loudly. I can't move; I want to run and tell Don to run. Don runs toward his room. He runs past the room they lock Rose in as she's banging on the entrance from the inside. My father is following closely behind him. “You get back here boy!” my father yells as he's chasing after Don. My feet move and I drop my school book. I forgot I had taken my book home. I can't control my body. My mind is telling me to stop moving, but my body is chasing after my father down the short hallway. The floor is screaming from all the feet hitting it. Rose is beating on the door harder and faster now, begging to get out. I wish I could let her out.