henry hughes . d11

HENRY -

He tapped on each thin line, one, two, three… all one thousand one hundred and ninety three of them. Was he wrong? No, he didn’t get it wrong. So that was it, any day now, he’d thought to himself, but they were supposed to come and get him five days ago. His eighteenth birthday had been five days ago. Over the past three years he had never seen them be late once. He slumped back, running a filthy hand through equally disgusting black hair.

Last week he’d watched as Sammy had been dragged from his cell, it was the one opposite his. One of them sent a quick kick to the back of his knees and Sammy had howled in pain, the familiar wet crunch of snapping bone. It happened so fast, a pistol in hand and before Sammy could even plead for his life-

Bang.

They’d left him there, wide-eyed, staring lifelessly into Henry’s cell for two whole days before someone had come and collected his body. He’d stopped trying to pretend to sleep after the eighth hour. Sammy hadn’t been a bad kid, a lot different from Henry, vastly different from Henry. Sammy had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught up in a roundup of suspected rebels three years ago. Swept away in a crowd, taken simply as a show of force, it had been the same for Quinn, Ridley and Talia, all of them names whispered at night when the guards didn’t yell.

They’d told him stories of who they had been, they’d tried pleading during the first few months, begging the soldiers to believe them. But after Ridley got a bullet in her head for pushing one too many times they’d quieted, accepting their fate. Sammy hadn’t done anything wrong.

Henry had.

He was good at dodging their questions, he’d spent only one year as part of his small five-man team. At that time he had killed four people. See, when he said four he didn’t mean the ones that had fallen to a bullet fired over a trench. He meant the ones that he’d looked in the eye and hit over and over again until there was nothing left. It had been a sport of sorts, a game that eased their tension and made the boys holler and cheer and bring back a little spring in their steps.

---

His father had taught him how to throw a punch when he was four. “You ain’t gonna know what it means to really be alive until you’ve seen someone die,” he’d say before yelling at Henry to pull his arms up. Tighter, in closer, move that foot back, you’ll get yourself thrown on the ground if you stand like that. The lessons were ingrained in his mind, probably -no, definitely not used in the way that his father had ever intended.

It started late night when five of them had grabbed a haggard-looking prisoner and dragged him into the middle of the camp. The last few days had been rough, it was as though they were all sensing the shift in the fighting around them. Ol’John’s entire squadron had been wiped out last night, they’d said no one had survived -a hundred of them gone, just like that.

Henry had only just turned fifteen, the boy in front of him couldn’t have been much older than himself, Mike slapped him on the shoulder, nudging him towards the open space beside the boy. The boy looked up, fresh blood spilling from a head wound. His hands shook as he stumbled to his feet, it was obvious that his left arm was broken from the way he clutched it to his chest. “Dan got in last night and broke it,” Mike had nodded to the boy’s arm, a devilish grin dancing on his lips. “Apparently the kid had tried to escape, but he’s the one that killed Tom, they found him on the ridge up North trying to flee.”

Henry nodded, rolling his shoulders, and cracking his neck as he stepped into the tight circle that had formed around them. It seemed that many of the rebels were eager to see the boy punished, as if by some unknown command it had been decided that Henry would deliver it.” What’s your name?” he asked as he cracked his fingers, stretching out the aches from a day hunched in a trench. “Ple-Please don’t, I’m sorry, okay, I was just doing what I was told, I did-”

The fist connected with his chin, sending him sprawling into the mud. “Shut up,” Henry moved forwards, squatting down in front of the sobbing Capitol soldier. “No one here cares,” he raised an eyebrow, grabbing the boy by the collar and pulling him onto his feet. “I’ll even give you an advantage,” Henry reached into his pocket pulling out a knife, he flicked the blade open, offering the blade to the boy. It was more fun if it at least looked dramatic.

The soldier stared at the blade, hesitating for only a moment before grabbing it. It seemed the blade awakened something within him and he moved, fast, swinging wildly at Henry. He hissed as the blade sliced into his left forearm, he’d thrown his hands up to protect his chest and face. The boy lunged again, and this time Henry stepped aside, grabbing the arm with the knife and using his momentum to pull him in closer, before sending his elbow into the boy’s face. The satisfying crunch of broken bone had him chuckling, and he tugged more, causing the boy to fall onto the ground.

It took only seconds before Henry was beside him, slamming his heel into the hand that held the knife. The boy howled, a scream lost in the cheering of the crowd. Echoed once more as Henry pushed his heel in further, feeling the flesh split, the bones crumble and watching as the boy’s face contorted in agony as he screamed again. Henry pushed harder. The knife had fallen from his hand and Henry picked it up, twisting the blade in between his fingers as he climbed on top of the boy, straddling him with his thighs.

”Please,” he croaked, ”I was just trying to stay alive, I didn’t mean for-” Henry punched him in the face, his head snapped to the side. Leaning down low, Henry pressed his lips to the boy's ear, “I’m gonna tell you a secret. I don’t care.”

“I don’t want to die,” the boy begged, at this point his face had swelled up, and he peered at Henry with one eye, a sob escaping past his lips as he whimpered.

Henry pulled the blade up to the boy’s throat, pushing the tip into the flesh, the boy choked, a plea turning to a gurgled cry as Henry pushed it in further. The flesh gave away like butter, slipping into the throat with ease as he pushed harder and harder. Blood bubbled past the boy’s lips, his eye widened as he fought for air. Henry knew that the blood would be rushing to his lungs, filling up his stomach and he pulled the blade out.

Choked gurgling sounds blended into the cries of the men around him, who cheered as the boy twitched, as his body fought to breathe.

Nay Pa, you don’t really know what it feels like to be alive until you kill someone.

Henry stood up, wiping the blade clean on the boy's shirt before tucking it back into his pocket.

---

The cell door swung open with a loud clang and Henry shakily rose to his feet. They were late, five days late for his execution, his gaze swung to the dried patch of blood on the concrete that had used to be in Sammy’s head. There was no one left to know that the next pool of blood would belong to him. The Soldiers slapped some cuffs on his wrists and Henry started in surprise, resisting as they tried to drag him forwards.

”Move,” the soldier to his right snarled, sending a blunt blow to the side of his head for his disobedience. Henry took an uncertain step forwards, ignoring the pain that blossomed across his face. Without a word they pushed him onwards, pushing him past the stained floor, continuing through a door he had forgotten existed. He’d seen so many people die that he knew not to bother with trying to speak, trying to let out another plea, telling them he didn’t want to die. He hadn’t listened when people had begged him, it was only right that his cries be ignored as well. Henry was jerked to a stop in front of a large set of doors, the sounds of a roaring crowd echoed through the dark brick that towered before him.

One of the soldiers unlocked his cuffs, pushing him towards the door. ”It’s your lucky day boy,” he scoffed, looking at his partner who grinned.

- HUGHES.