Bobby

Bobby was starting to get worried. He looked around again, but could not find his mother anywhere.

He yelled, “Mommy!”

The rusted over roller coasters and ferris wheels of the desolite amusement park grew more erie by the minute.

The amusement park was abandoned, as a result of the Chernobyl meltdown almost 20 years before Bobby, would wind up there. Bobby’s mother had a spirit for adventure, and headless of the potential hazards, dragged her son to the site of a nuclear meltdown.

Bobby sat down on the damp packed earth and cried.

“Bobby! Bobby, where are you?” his mother’s voice asked mockingly.

Bobby stood up relieved, and turned to face the sound, but the man navigating the decrepit ruins was definitely not his mother.

⋯

Bobby’s mother had looked for Bobby everywhere. She knew he liked being alone but this was ridiculous. She had specifically instructed him to stay with her at all times. She was angry. Partially as a way to keep herself from being forced to realizing her failure as a parent that caused her to lose track of her.

She was around 5’ 5’’ tall. She had dark brown hair and eyes.

She sometimes worried about him. At first glance he was fine. He had white blonde hair. That was common enough at his age of 4 that contrasted with his eyes, which were a darker brown. Not too different from every other kid his age, but his lack of friends and social contact had ensured that he would remain friendless. If she wasn’t his mother, she would describe him as just weird.

Off in the distance she heard Bobby scream.

“Bobby?” she yelled.

After a few seconds the screaming cut out abruptly.

Bobby’s mother pushed through the brush in the direction the sound had originated.

“Bobby?” she asked again.

A few feet away, Bobby emerged from the dense undergrowth. Large portions of his clothes were soaked with blood.

“Hi,” Bobby said.

Bobby’s mother was angry. Again trying to pretend she didn’t feel guilty that her son was obviously hurt as a result of her ditching him.

“Jesus, Bobby. What happened? Do your ears not work or something?”

Bobby tried to calm her down.

“Sorry, sorry. I got lost. I fell and I think I may have broken my nose.”

“Serves you right.”

Bobby’s mother walked away.

“Are you coming this time?” she asked sarcastically.

“Yes” Bobby replied, checking his pocket for the man’s knife.

Bobby smiled, he would be needing this in the future.

⋯

Bobby’s mother was concerned with Bobby. More than usual that is. He had finally resurfaced after the three days directly following the return from the amusement park incident. Of which he almost entirely spent in his room, a large amount of dissected and mutilated mice and rats had turned up. Presumably left behind by Bobby.

When she had questioned him about it, he had screamed at her to stop going through his stuff.

A sound resonated throughout the house that sliced through her thoughts like a knife. Bobby had screamed something, and a gargled hissing had soon picked up. The sound had come from Bobby’s room.

She ran into the room and screamed at the sight awaiting her.

The walls of the room were painted a turquoise blue. The ceiling was white, and the hardwood floor was left its natural color.

In the corner nearest to the door their dog was laying, dead, on the floor. Its head was lying a few feet away. The space in between was spanned by grizzly strands of flesh.

In the farthest corner, Bobby’s baby brother William was creating the hissing sound. His throat had been stabbed, so when he tried to say something bubbles formed and popped. The result was blood oozing from his neck drenched the sheets of his bed red.

Bobby’s father entered the room at that point. He was about average height, and was thickly set. He had blue eyes and was bald. He instantly vomited all over the floor, which prevented him from screaming in alarm.

The window was open.

⋯

It had now been a week since Bobby had disappeared. The only realistic explanation that Bobby’s parents could come up with was that someone had entered the house through the window, killed the dog, then William, then left with Bobby.

There was a knocking sound from the closet. Bobby’s mother opened the closet door, partly expecting her own paranoia to be to fault.

Bobby stepped out. His hair was messed up and he looked like he had missed a few nights of sleep, but he was there. Bobby’s mother could not find the words to say something. Bobby was holding a knife.

At first Bobby just sat there silent.

“I didn’t like him very much,” Bobby said, “the dog.”

Seeing surprise and realization dawn on his parents face, he continued,

“He was crying, so I tell him, ‘shut up, shut up, but he wouldn’t, so I fixed him. He doesn’t cry anymore.”

Bobby’s mother couldn’t speak.

“You loved him more than me,” Bobby said, “You loved him more, so I will fix that.”

⋯

“Bobby. Wake up Bobby.”

It was Bobby’s teacher Ms. Davis.

Ms. Davis was around fifty years old. She had black hair, and only slightly lighter eyes. She always wore a permanent frown on her face.

The walls were painted turquoise blue. He hated that blue. It mas mild, yet irritating. It drove him insane.

“Sorry,” Bobby apologized.

Bobby had been daydreaming. He could see the blood splattered walls of the concrete storage closet that houses the three students he killed.

“Pay attention next time.”

“I will.”

“Okay. Moving on has anyone seen Richard?” Ms. Davis asked

“He went home sick,” Bobby replied.

“That’s him, Patricia, and John.”

Bobby shrugged, “I know where they really are, but I’ll need to whisper it.”

Ms. Davis leaned in near Bobby, so he could whisper it.

Bobby whispered, “They are dead. Just like you will be.”

Blood spewed from Ms. Davis’ throat. She swayed for a moment, then fell.

Blood soaked the tile floor.

Bobby calmly walked over to the children huddled in the corner. It was pathetic.

“You are all going to die.” Bobby said in a bright, cheery tone.

⋯

Bobby’s father woke up. Bobby had slit his mother’s throat, but he didn’t quite kill his father instantly as a result of the stab wound had missing the vital organs, so he would slowly bleed to death instead of quickly.

Looking out the window, he could see the school across the street. The red brick exterior now looked a dull orange.

Bobby was climbing down the wall from his classroom.

Bobby needed to be stopped, or many more lives would be lost and families broken. Without thinking twice, Bobby’s father pulled the pistol he had as a precaution out of the nightstand, made sure it was ready to fire, and aimed it at Bobby.

Bobby’s head split open and red mush splattered against the wall.

Bobby’s father cried for a moment about what he had done. Then he slumped to the floor and died.

Note: This is just a story. It is not meant to hint at homicidal feelings I might have, so don’t take it as more than it is.