This is for jasminebells' contest Seven Deadly Sins
The sin: Wrath
A loud crash echoed through the well-kept one story home, followed by a loud string of curses. Johnny winced and looked up from his coloring to watch the kitchen door. He hated how his mother could get sometimes.
“Damn! Damn it all!” her usually sweet voice rang shrill through the house again. She stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the swinging door against the dining room wall. She kicked a coffee table against the wall, causing a lamp to fall and shatter on the hardwood floor.
“Mother?” Johnny asked, concerned.
His mother’s eyes widened and she turned towards her son. “Oh my, Johnny I’m sorry you had to see that dear. Mommy is just a little…concerned about all the ants that keep getting into the kitchen.” She sighed and slumped into one of the chairs around the dining room table. “I mean, what will the Home and Garden association think when they visit and find ants crawling over every inch of my beautiful kitchen?”
“But ants are in the garden, won’t they like them then?” Johnny asked.
His mother smiled weakly. “No, dear, not in my kitchen,” she explained. She held her head in her hands and sniffled, trying to hold back welling tears. “Now they will remove me from the organization, and I’ll never be able to host another afternoon tea again.”
“Oh.” Johnny felt a bit happy at this thought. He hated the homely garden ladies almost as much as he hated it when his mother was angry. They all had tight faces and smelled like the mothballs that covered his mother’s nice tea dresses that she hid away in the attic.
“What am I doing?” his mother said suddenly. “I shouldn’t be bringing my five-year-old son into this. I’ll just have to lay out some ant traps.” She stood and went back into the kitchen, much calmer than before, pulling the swinging door back from the wall as she went.
Johnny stared at the wall. There was a large dent where the paint was scratched from the door hitting the wall, and pieces of the lamp still covered the floor. He hated when his mother was so angry, but he hated the ants more for making her feel this way. Anything that was so bad to his mother had to be a very bad thing.
He climbed down from his chair and – while carefully stepping over shards of broken lamp – made his way into the kitchen. His mother was crouching on the floor, tucking ant traps into every known corner of the room.
“Can I help?” he asked, eager to do something to destroy the ants that hurt his mother so much.
She jumped, not expecting her son’s voice, hitting her head on the countertop. “Johnny! Don’t scare mommy like that!” she yelled, furiously rubbing the back of her head.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“And no, you cannot help. Everything will be fine, these traps will be the justice served to those nasty little creatures,” she continued, ignoring his apology. She turned towards her son and placed a hand on his shoulder. She lifted his chin with her other hand and locked eyes with him. “Promise me, dear, that you will never let nasty vermin like this continue to exist. They cause nothing but trouble. Promise?”
“I promise,” he said, nodding. He would do anything for his mother, anything to keep her happy.
She smiled and stood up. “Now, I need a nap. Go back to your coloring, okay?”
Johnny smiled as well. “Okay,” he said. He stood in his place as he watched his mother leave. When she was gone he turned to face one of the ant traps, crouching down on the floor beside it. Only one ant was meandering near the trap, though it didn’t seem to have any intention of entering the little deadly chamber.
“There has to be a faster way to kill you little ants,” he said. “Mother will be happy if you die faster, there has to be a better way.”
He sat back on his knees and looked up to the counter. Sticking over the counter’s edge was a thin cardboard object. He pulled it down and held it in his hands.
Johnny knew exactly what it was. He saw his father use the little fire sticks inside to light candles in the kitchen. He always said the smell of cinnamon-scented candles soothed him, made him less angry. Johnny never asked any more about it, he knew how angry his father could get. His father was always angry. He was always angry at Johnny. Mother was never angry at Johnny. Johnny loved his mother.
With the little packet of fire sticks in his hand, he knew he had the right justice to destroy the little ants. The fire sticks would so a much better job at killing the ants than the ant traps.
He flipped open the cardboard flap and pulled one of the fire sticks out, rubbing it against the side like he saw his father do every night. A bright little orange light came on at the end of the stick. He bent back over by the ant trap and held the light on the ant that was meandering by the trap. It shriveled up and turned into only one small black smudge on the crisp white linoleum.
Johnny was very pleased with himself. He smiled widely as he set the flame to any ant he could find. Mother would be so happy with him! Being such a good boy gave him a nice feeling in his head. Everything else was blurry, all except for the burning of the ants. His heart beat fast and it felt like Johnny could to anything he wanted to. He was being such a good boy!
He was so enthralled in his task that he didn’t hear it when the door to the garage – which was connected to the kitchen – slammed shut.
“John!” Johnny’s father shouted when he saw what his son was doing. His tone was laced with anger, hatred even. He grabbed his son up from the floor and blew out the match. “What are you thinking?” he shouted.
“What’s going on?” Johnny’s mother asked, running into the kitchen.
“Look at what your son has done!” his father roared, pointing at the black spots on the floor and waving the match in her face.
It wasn’t entirely noticeable, but Johnny could see his mother’s face soften a little. She wasn’t angry. She couldn’t be angry. Johnny had been such a good boy; he had felt it in his entire being. He was a good boy, a good boy.
“Maybe you shouldn’t leave your matches out for him to get at,” she said. Johnny could hear the calmness in her voice. She wasn’t angry. Johnny was a good boy. She couldn’t be angry at her good boy.
His father grumbled and set Johnny back on the floor. “Don’t do it again!” he growled.
Johnny nodded and watched his father light a candle before he left the kitchen. His mother grabbed a wet cloth and started wiping up the black smudges on the linoleum. “You need to be careful with matches, dear,” she said. “You could hurt yourself.”
“The ants are gone,” Johnny pointed out.
His mother looked around. She couldn’t possibly deny that there weren’t less ants than there were before Johnny had been such a good boy.
“I suppose you’re right,” she said softly. She stood up put the wet cloth in the sink. “Please be more careful, Johnny,” she said before leaving the room.
Johnny smiled. He was so very pleased with himself. His mother knew what a good boy he was. She just couldn’t say so, couldn’t give him the praise he deserved, because his father was there. His father didn’t understand. His father was never a good boy like Johnny was.
Johnny was content, and his mother was content. The ant problem cleared up, and Johnny watched proudly as the homely garden women gave her a present for her pretty kitchen. He had been such a good boy.
Then, twelve years later, Johnny was given an even bigger chance to be a good boy. And he was such a good boy.
He walked into his living room one day after school, finding his mother sobbing on the couch.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What happened?”
“Look around,” she said between sobs. “Look at my beautiful house. Look at what they did to it.”
Johnny looked around the room. In fact, there was something severely out of place. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it at first. Books were strewn all over the floor, a large vase lay broken in front of the fireplace, the television was missing from the entertainment center, and the couches were slashed with knives. Their stuffings spilled out from the cushions and hung like white, fluffy puss.
He ran into the other rooms, only to find similar disasters. Things were destroyed, belongings were stolen. Johnny couldn’t believe how this could have happened. He yelled and threw the only remaining items he could find, breaking them against the walls. Never had he been this on fire before.
“Who did this?” he demanded, running back into the living room.
His sobbing mother shrugged. “If I had to guess I’d say that family of filthy vermin living down the street. They joined the Home and Garden association a few years ago and have hated me for my lovely home ever since. My beautiful…beautiful home,” sobs broke off her words.
Johnny couldn’t believe anything like this could ever happen to his mother. His mother! She was the loveliest, most kind person who ever lived! Only the most despicable vermin would do something like this to her. And filthy vermin like that didn’t deserve to continue to exist. Johnny was seething, but he had to comfort his mother now.
“It’ll be okay,” he said through gritted teeth, sitting on the couch next to his mother. “Everything will be okay.”
“It will,” his mother agreed. “I already called the police and they dusted for fingerprints and are going to try to find out who did it. I even told them about my suspicions of that family.”
Johnny nodded. The police were never good enough at solving things. They would take such a long time. It could be months before the vermin was brought to justice. He needed a better plan.
That night, Johnny crept through the darkness down the street. It was so late; the streetlights were already off in the sleepy little neighborhood. He was perfectly equipped; he had found all he needed in his father’s workshop.
The vermin’s home was only a few minutes down the street and Johnny was standing on the front porch in no time. He unscrewed the cap from the canister he had carried from his house and splashed the contents on the front door, windows, perfect white siding of the house.
He flipped open the little packet in his hands, pulling a small stick from inside. He slid it across the packet and threw it onto the area where he had just spread the liquid.
In seconds, the front door was glowing a bright orange. Johnny stepped back from the house and stood on the front lawn. Orange began to engulf the entire home. Soon, the vermin would be gone.
He laughed loudly, maniacally even, heat burning under his skin. His head was fuzzy; all he could concentrate on was the orange glow. His heart raced, blood rushed through his veins, and his breathing was sharp. He paced the lawn, laughing.
“I’m such a good boy,” he said. “Mother will be so proud.”
He laughed louder and threw another match at the house. “Good boy!” he shrieked. “I’m such a good boy! You vermin deserve this! I’m a good boy!”
The wailing of sirens broke his thoughts too late. He hadn’t noticed their approach. The first thing he became aware outside of the orange glow was the heavy weight bearing down on him, pushing him to the cool grass. Then the sirens. They were so loud, and they hurt Johnny’s ears. But he was such a good boy, they must be a reward. He smiled as he listed to them telling him he was a good boy. “Good boy,” they said, “Johnny is a good boy.”
“You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you…” the man began reciting. A policeman, Johnny recognized. The policeman thought he had been a bad boy. But he hadn’t. He had been a good boy.
Johnny nodded, never trying to go against the man’s words. He knew he was a good boy. Mother would know as well. This man, he was like father. Neither had ever been such good boys like Johnny was. Johnny was a good boy, a good boy.
