H My Children

Editor’s Foreword

Shhh! Don’t wake the children!

Oh my god,” I thought to myself. “What is that noise coming from outside? Who or what is out there?” I heard voices and footsteps all around me. “Go away!” I started screaming. What was it that I did that was so wrong? I also was worried about them startling my children. Which thankfully were able to sleep through this terrible noise.

It’s not like I’m some sort of monster. I’m just your average typical guy. I started thinking of all the things I may have done to anger someone, but it sounds like more than one person out there. What should I do? I’m too afraid to open the door and try to reason with them. Now I hear them yelling from the streets and my yard. “Murderer!” “Killer!” “You sick bastard, come out!” they yelled.

All of a sudden I heard police sirens coming closer. “Great,” I thought. “The police are here and they will make that mob go away.” I finally managed a smile. “Come on out, Eddie. We know you’re in there,” I heard the police call out.

“What the hell is going on?” I asked aloud, as if someone could answer me. Let me think about this, should I just go outside to the police. This must be some sort of mistake and I can explain whatever it is they need explained. But my children, what about my children? Should I just leave them in here alone? I may as well, at least if I go outside the crowd would finally, hopefully settle down and I can show them I’m probably not the person they are looking for.

“I”m coming out,” I hollered. As soon as I opened the door I was charged by the police and thrown to the floor.

“Where are they?” one of the officers asked.

“Where are who?” I questioned right back.

“The children, tell me where they are right now,” he demanded.

“What children? The only children I know anything about are my own children that are still sleeping in the house,” I replied.

I was lifted off the ground, thankfully, I was in so much pain from being thrown on the ground, that I think they actually broke my nose. Yes they did, as I felt blood trickle from my nose onto my lips.

Two officers, one for each of my arms, escorted me back into my house. “Tell us where they are,” they asked more angrily than before.

“If you’re talking about my children they are right upstairs sleeping, which by they way, I’m surprised they haven’t been woken up by all this nonsense.”

We headed up the stairs and went in to my children’s room.

“Oh my god,” one officer said. Another officer started to vomit as if he just had eaten some bad food. The other officers just stared upon my children in what looked like utter horror.

“You see,” I said, “these are the only children I know about. My children, my lovely children.”

I kept their heads perfectly near their bodies so I can always tell which one is which. I always got them confused with one another.

“I’m so sorry, officers, this place is such a mess. I told them over and over to clean up this room. You know how kids are though.”

Next thing I knew I was carried off and thrown into the back of a police car.

Once we got down to the station, they kept asking me questions about the children. Why did I kill them, why did I take them from their families? “But they are and always were my children,” I told them over and over again.

“If they were your children, why did you murder them?” the detective asked.

“Murder?” I chuckled. “I didn’t murder my children–I just had to discipline them that’s all. Children are supposed to listen to their parents,” I remarked.

Well it turns out that the judge and just about everyone else did not agree with my version of discipline. So now I’m sitting in this cell for the rest of my life or until they allow the death penalty. Which to be honest with you, I don’t mind it so much at all. I just miss my children. My lovely children.

 

About the Author

Ron Bruno is a thirty two year old male from Jersey. Has been writing now for several months as a hobby.

 

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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any informational storage or retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

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