The sun began to peak over the tops of the buildings far over head. The man stampered over the cobblestone path. Although he was bleeding, it didn't slow his paste. His footsteps echoed around him as he grasped the bag under his arm. He wasn't thinking, feeling, he was just fleeing. He leapt up, balancing on the bench before leaping atop the stone fence, balancing as he quickened his paste. The watchers chasing behind him stopped and stumbled, tripping over their own feet and each other.
But the man ran on till he almost ran into the wooden door of the house only a few yards away from the main town. The path by the house wasn't even stone, but instead merely where grass had been beaten down leaving a small dirt path. After several moments of fiddling with the door, he stumbled into the other side where his son sat by the fire with the baby curled up beside him.
The man slammed the door, locking it as he muttered, "Blake, where's your mother?"
The boy shrugged his shoulders, "I 'unno. Out I think."
A long sigh escaped the man's mouth as he tossed the brown bag onto the floor beside the larger bed in the one room house. On the other side of the bed was a smaller bed that his two children shared. It pained the man that his children had to share a bed, but there was nothing else he could offer them. And they were good children, they never complained. Well, the one who could talk never complained. The other one would never cry or make a peep during the night.
The man finally looked back to his son and baby, saying softly, "Do you know how your mother heals wounds?"
The kid nodded slightly, "Uh huh, fer tha most part. She showed me 'ow ta 'eal mos' wounds."
A grin spread across the mans face as he shuffled to the bed, plopping down, "Can you look at this?"
For a moment the boy fell silent, glancing to the little girl who laid on her belly, looking at the two silently. Though when her brother's gaze landed on her, a grin spread across her face as she giggled loudly. Then the boy pushed himself to his feet, walking over to his father on the bed, "I dunno if I can really do too much."
A hoarse chuckle escaped the man's throat, almost forced to lighten his son's mood, but ever since a few mornings ago, his son barely spoke to him. The bruise was still visible on the young boy's cheek, and the man still felt the burning pain in his stomach at the sight. After a moment of silence, the man pulled his shirt off, showing the deep scars across his chest and along his back. But he then turned his side to show the blood stained side. The boy reached to grabbed for an old cloth left on top of the small table next to the bed, pressing it against his father's side.
A wince spread across the man's face at the stinging pain as he grumbled. His sone made no sound as he shuffled across the floor to the small cupboard, reaching around the bottles of liquor to grab a small sewing kit. He then made his way back to his father, threading the string through a small needle. The man stopped looking at his son as his gaze landed on the little girl who watched them intently.
He saw the grin spread across her face again as her eyes lit up. He couldn't help but chuckle softly, feeling a cold hand run across the fresh cut on his side, most likely rubbing a gel to the wound to clean away the blood and such. Another wince spread across the man's face as the boy poked a needle into the man's skin, sewing slowly but steadily. He felt the boy's small hands tremble, not use to sewing wounds on his own.
The man's hand reached out to gently touch his son's shoulder, murmuring softly, "Relax my son."
But the boy did not relax, he only tensed more as he quickly tied the horse hair thread and bit off the end. The child quickly put the sewing materials back into the box, placing it back into the cupboard and returning to his sister. But the man kept his gaze on the little girl, who grinned back to him. So innocent, so beautiful. She deserved a better life, he wanted to give her a better life. His gaze then fell onto the satchel, if he could just steal one thing better than the last, perhaps he could get enough money to give the girl and her brother better lives.
Just if he was lucky, then perhaps he could.
The Father
By Sheridan
