Nuther Writing Contest Entry

Sorry if it???s a bit late.
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The boy leaned back into the soft comfort of the large leather chair that sat facing his computer. His left leg was thrown casually over his right, his arms were crossed in a lazy manner over his chest, and a tiny smirk was held on his lips as he watched news report flash across the glowing screen of his computer.

The news report suddenly disappeared off his screen, and was instead replaced with the webcam screen, which was showing the image of an angry looking, aging man. The man had to be late 50s, perhaps early 60s, and he was getting the first signs of wrinkles around his eyes. Those eyes. They were bloodshot and full of intense anger, so deep into the sockets that the boy never failed to wonder when the skin would just swallow up the eyeballs and leave no trace. The older man's lips were stretched into a permanent angry line.

The boy should have been afraid. But no, he wasn't. He kept casual and only raised an eyebrow slightly to acknowledge the other.

The older man couldn't even express his anger at the youth on the screen in that moment, it was a burning rage, it filled him up and for a few seconds all he could feel was the hard metal object pressing down against his thigh.??Not yet! WAIT!??The voice in his head screamed, and so he sat there was a fixed glare.

"So?" He snapped. "Did you get it done?"??

The boy curled his lip and raised an eyebrow. "'Did you get it done?' Who do you think I am? I'm not exactly new to this sort of thing. Of course I got it done, turn on any news channel in the world and you'll see." The cocky attitude of the on screen boy went straight to the man's head and his hand flew surprisingly quickly down to his thigh. His fingers had already formed a tight grip on the object, before he had to fight back the urge to actually use it.

Soon,??the voice promised.??Soon.

"So," The boy smirked. "What've you been up to, you old, evil traitor?" The man was taken completely by surprise, almost missing his moment.??Almost.

His hand flew to his thigh and the gun was now held in his hands, all heavy and cool metal in his grip. He had the barrel pointed straight at the image of his webcam, the image of the youth, shrieking in insane laughter and gasping words that insulted the man and the corporation that he held the gun in his hands for.

There was a bang. A shatter. And the man found himself breathing heavily and laboured on his end of the screen. His computer had been completely shattered by the force of the bullet. Smoke drifted from the colourful wires that protruded from the remains of the machine.

On the other end though, where the young boy had sat, there was only a mess of blood, dripping off his own computer and soaking into the leather of the chair, and the soft fluffy carpet.

The blood was the only memory of the teen that had sat shrieking with laughter in that very chair only seconds earlier.

???Well done. You did well, and the little freak deserved it.??? The voice echoed through the ears of the heavily breathing man who sat frozen in shock.

???Now, if you???ll excuse me, I???m off to clear up the blood.??? His body moved without his brain???s permission, and soon he was facing the disasterous crime scene. His hands slowly began to scrub at the blood, the blood that proved him guilty, the blood that had spilled from his worst enemy.

I tell this story from seven years later, and in all those seven years, not one person realised the death of the boy had anything to do with the man.

Or rather, the man in his head.