Creative fun in
the palm of your hand.
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1616359
Rated: ASR · Short Story · Death · #1616359
A man committed the ultimate hate crime, and finds what he deserves.
Individual Happiness

She took a deep, shaky breath and crouched down lower in the bushes.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she kept telling herself that this was worth it. It would only take one shot. One shot for this nightmare to end. She looked down at the gun in her hands. A powerful weapon; belonging to her by fate. Once her son’s, but when he, his brother and both their young wives had fallen victim to an horrific hate crime, all his possessions fell to her. She would have happily handed them off to her husband, but he had fled for fear of his own life after the deaths of their children.

She swallowed her tears at the thought of them. If she could get this shot, her husband wouldn’t have to worry. She knew this man wasn’t the only racist in the world, but he was the one that she knew, even if police didn’t, had taken her family from her. She leaned forward to get a better view of the house. A leaf crunched beneath her foot.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Her body froze as she slowly lifted her eyes from the leaf to the window. If he saw her, there was no way she could go through with this. Letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, she allowed her body to loosen up.

There he was.

A cold beer in hand, he relaxed as he watched a game of baseball. She couldn’t stand baseball, despite it being a favourite hobby of her beloved country, America. That this man was watching it surprised her. It was a sport populated by men of different colours. Why would a white supremacist want to watch it? She frowned to herself, silently wondering whether she’d made a terrible mistake. She had been knocked hard before seeing him that night…maybe she had confused him with another man. These thoughts were going through her mind until she heard him yell. The profanities he used almost brought a tear to her eye. He wasn’t watching for the sport, he was watching America play an African country. He was watching for America’s victory. He was watching for the pain.

She clenched her teeth tighter together and raised the gun. This man in front of her was enjoying a normal life. This man, comfortable, in his living room, had put her family through an indescribable hell. First he’d attempted to burn their house. Fortunately, her husband had arrived home moments later to see him escaping from the scene. He’d been able to save the house, but police had not believed the allegations. Why would they? It was common knowledge this man was racist, though he’d never done anything illegal to upset society.

First these images flashed through her mind.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Her rage was building. She forced her mind to go back to that night.

They were having a family dinner. Her 50th birthday cake had just been brought out when he just walked in. There was no way he didn’t know they were all there. The cars out the front; the noise…it was all too obvious. He came into the dining room. To everyone’s shock, he merely walked over to her youngest son, whispered something in his ear, pulled a knife out of his pocket and drove it into the boys back. Her daughter-in-law, despite having skin whiter than snow, was killed in an instant.

She’d always believed that in moments of terror, people reveal who they truly are. That was how she knew her husband had been lying to her all these years. He fled. She hadn’t seen him since that terrible night.

At the time, she was unaware he’d bolted. She’d been far too concerned for the rest of her family.

Now, as she crouched in the bushes, they were just images. She knew there was music on somewhere; she knew she was screaming; but the only sound she heard echo in her mind was her oldest son’s last word.

He’d been frozen in his chair while she and his wife had tugged at his arm, tried to pull him away. The knifeman came around to him. Smiled at him. Leaned down and whispered in his ear. What he was saying, she had no idea, but it brought her son back to his senses. As the knife was thrust into his chest, he turned to her.


Tears were now flowing down her cheeks freely as she stared at the brickwork of his house, the leaves beneath her rustling with every movement. She held a hand up in front of her face. Looking at the dark skin, she still couldn’t understand why someone might hate her for this. These hands could do anything a pair of pale hands could. There was no difference.

On the night that changed her life, she had seen someone lose hope for the first time. Her eldest son’s wife, upon seeing his lifeless body, accepted death. She had welcomed it with open arms.

The boy’s mother, however, needed revenge. She had first watched one son die, then his wife. Next, she’d seen another son murdered, along with his beautiful wife, who simply refused to live without him.

He turned to her.

She looked around, desperate for a way out.

That night, her heart skipped a beat.

He’d whispered it, but she hadn’t heard. Instead, she’d turned and run, but he followed. She ran as fast as she could for the back door, she needed air. Before she could get there, he grabbed her. He pulled her head near, and whispered in her ear.

“The day of individual happiness has passed.”

With new rage building up, she’d managed to elbow him hard enough to loosen his grip, and run further. The second she was within public view, he stopped. He would not go to prison, simply for a few non-Aryans. In his eyes, they weren’t worth it.

Staring at her, he’d spat on the ground and walked away.

In the weeks that followed, she could not get police to arrest him. He’d carried away the murder weapon. There was no DNA. The only thing that linked him to the crime was her testimony.

The rage inside her was too intense now.

Shakily, she raised the gun.

Closing one eye, she lined it up.

Straight through the glass, it would hit his shoulder.

She waited for him to turn.

The second he did, she was ready.

The baseball game went to a break.

He spilt his beer.

He stood up.

He turned.

Her heart skipped a beat, as his heart stopped.
© Copyright 2009 E.J Wilkinson (emmajayne.w at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Writing.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
Log in to Leave Feedback
Not a Member?
Signup right now, for free!
All accounts include:
*Bullet* FREE Email @Writing.Com!
*Bullet* FREE Portfolio Services!
Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1616359