Harris's Wish (Continued) | Short Story

Glass shattering, Father yelling, dog barking, Mother wailing.

The orchestra of violence began its twisted symphony once again in the apartment Harris called home. This time he was bent over Grade 10 Calculus, finding refuge in complicated equations and marveling at their orderliness. These questions might be difficult, but they could be solved by the correct method and he could arrive at the correct answer. Harris sought refuge in them an orderliness from the chaos that ensued after school and on weekends.

He groaned inwardly. Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony could not drown out the live orchestra; the pale yellow curtain separating his little room and the living room was not at all soundproof. Harris was loathe to leave his chair. With legs still crossed, he continued twiddling his pencil as if nothing of concern had happened.

Then the glass shattering and Father yelling and dog barking and Mother wailing grew in volume and intensified to a point that Harris could no longer ignore. Today’s concerto was louder than usual. It was too loud. He felt anger and resentment welling up, like hot lava melting his usual icy apathy. He told Mother to leave Father. He told her but she refused to listen. Always.

The orchestra of glass shattering and Father yelling and dog barking and Mother wailing had just reached a crescendo. Fortissimo. That was it, Harris thought, he had to step in. He took the Swiss army knife that he had hidden beneath a neat stack of Physics and Math homework in his drawer and spun the blade out, before passing through the thin yellow film into the living room.

Harris was met with the same familiar sight: Father crouching over Mother. Belligerent, fully drunk Father lashing his belt out as a cruel master cracked his whip at his poor mule. Mother kneeling down in a grey-stained dress with the most swollen and puffy eyes, head bent and almost touching the ground. Scruffy the Border Collie was just running around them tirelessly in circles and barking the whole time, as if telling Father to stop.

But Father never did til he finally collapsed like a dead man, inebriated beyond consciousness. He would not stir, still and unmoving, til the rays of the noonday sun shone through their apartment’s tiny windows. Sometimes, a great many times, Harris had hoped that Father would lie there, still and unmoving, forever.

Now - he’ll make that wish come true.

(Continued from Part I as copied above.)

Harris charged full speed at Father who was still intently absorbed in striking Mother and heaping curses on her. He aimed for the jugular but Father slowly stood up from his crouching position. Harris’s knife skated across the surface of Father’s right forearm and left a straight trail of fresh blood.

“Aaaaaargh!” Father hollered in rage and swerved unsteadily to face his new target.

“Harris darling, stay out of this!” Harris froze. “Please! Listen to me!” His initial bravado had unsettled into an uncertain paralysis when he heard Mother cry out in utter anguish, even more loudly than before. She, who could bear to be constantly battered and broken night after night…she could not stand the thought of her little boy having a single bruise. Scruffy joined in Mother’s lamentations with a plaintive howl.

While Father, Father spared no time in taking the opportunity to strike. In his usual drunken stupor, he snarled and swiped at Harris, trying to snatch the Swiss army knife away from him. Left, right, left - right, left, right. Harris’s small frame enabled him to dodge each one of these attempts nimbly.

Finally Father swiped too hard to the left, lost his balance, and fell over. He hit the ground cheek first, the carpet muffling the sound of this colossal crash. Dazed and disoriented from the alcohol and the fall, Father looked up at Harris with half open eyes from the vantage point of the floor. Dazed and disoriented as he was, Father knew one thing: he was at the mercy of his knife-wielding son.

Now, he could end it all. Or so Harris thought, towering over fallen Father. But Harris’s muscles staged a mutiny and clenched uncooperatively. He did not quite understand his hesitation to slit Father’s throat there and then, especially when it gave Mother and him the ticket to a new life. (The potential punishment he might face – the gallows – did not surface in Harris’s mind at all.)

It, just seemed so, so…

So inhuman. So much like the Father which he despised.

Harris turned away slightly, knife dangling at his side loosely. Blood dripped from the downwards pointing blade and fashioned themselves into an unclosed circle of crimson. He will not continue this cycle of brutality.

Then Harris heard the man he considered a monster deeply heaving and weeping like a baby.

“I’m – I’m sorry – I’ll change. Promise.”

The story yesterday ended with a cliffhanger to fill in the blanks. I knew I had to write this second part, though it may take away from some mystery your imaginative minds can conjure - Harris had to continue telling his tale.

Can Harris trust in Father's promise to change? Let me know in the comments below!

P.S. I'm so blown away by all your support and encouragement, it means the world to me! ❤️