The Boy in the Black Hoodie

Chapter Thirty-Eight

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

HIM'S POV

Oh. My. Lord.

Carson. He was...back. With Jay!

Obviously, he'd gotten out of this torturous Höllenloch eventually. That was a good thing. He seemed like a good kid. And, he was now with the FFO! That was a great thing.

I smiled as I remembered the last time we had met. Memories of the medicine room came rushing back. I could still feel the open gashes on his back as I rubbed on the soothing ointment. I wondered for a moment if he still had the scars. He probably did, and they had probably been reopened quite a few times. I sighed. Who could be so cruel as to do such terrible things to an innocent child?

The sad part was, I probably didn't know the half of it. I had seen, all those years ago, numerous scars, bruises, gashes, cuts, and burns. But, I wondered just how much more they had hurt him. How much more they had torn apart his dreams of a better life.

This new Carson, I liked him a lot better. He didn't look at the ground all the time anymore, nor did he flinch at a movement of the arm. No longer did he use "sir" after every word, or have an emotionless expression. It was like he had risen from the grave...I guess, in a way, he had.

I could tell how much Carson meant to Jay, and Jay to Carson. Thinking more on the subject, they were exactly like Michael and I had been before he was shot.

-----

I pointed the pistol at the target, aiming for the chest. I felt the familiar rush of adrenaline flow through my body as I prepared to pull the trigger. I always got a strange feeling when I was about to shoot a gun, even if it was just a dummy, and the bullets were next to harmless.

I imagined WIO guys on all sides, rushing towards me to try and prevent what I was about to do. They were yelling and screaming, sprinting as fast as they could. But I, the mighty HIM, would not let them stop me. Their evil leader deserved to die. He was responsible for everything the WIO had done.

Seconds before the mob attacked me, I squeezed the trigger. The bullet went flying, hitting its intended mark, and piercing the man's chest. He didn't even scream, but fell to the floor, dead.

Before I could start celebrating my victory, a voice interrupted me, "Nice shot. Right in the heart, kills 'em every time."

Frowning, I turned around. I didn't like to be interrupted.

Leaning against the doorway was a boy around my age. He was grinning, and his eyebrows were raised.

"Why are you here?" I asked, annoyed.

"Same as you. I wanted to practice," the boy said.

"Why?"

He shrugged, "I want to get really good, so when my dad lets me go out for a real mission, I can make everybody impressed.

"Oh," I said, not really sure how to respond.

"Yeah. So, you like to shoot?"

I nodded, "Yup!"

"Me too," he said, grabbing a pistol just like mine from the weapons closet.

It turns out, the guy was actually a good shot. About the same level as me.

We spent many hours in the weapons training room. It was probably the best time I'd had in a while. And, it worked me out pretty good, too. By the time we decided to call it quits, we had probably each gotten a good hundred shots in at least.