literature

Shitboy

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Literature Text

By the time her parents found out what she'd christened the lad, it was far too late. Shitboy he was and Shitboy he'd remain, right up until that day.

In her defence, she'd only been five when she'd first surprised him, sitting thigh-deep in the muck of the pig pen, tears coursing down his filthy face, mingling with the blood oozing from the wound in his cheek. He'd found out to his cost that a dozing sow can be lightning fast when it comes to protecting her squealing brood from hungry marauders.

She'd giggled of course, pointed and jumped up and down in glee. Well; she was only five. The trouble was, as she grew up, she got worse rather than better and at fifteen, still sniffed, tossed her auburn ringlets and scoffed at Shitboy, who though now more sixteen than six, was still scruffy, dirty and smelled like he'd just yesterday climbed out of the sty.

They never found out where he lived. Theirs was the only house in the valley, hidden among the fertile fields by the orchards which were their main foodcrop. They knew he stole from them of course. The occasional piglet would vanish, presumably ending up pitroasted and garnished with the apples Shitboy regularly purloined. He'd dig up beets as well, and carrots and onions, all presumably for sustenance, as he was never destructive in his thefts.

They'd tried everything, the girl and her parents. He never approached or spoke to them, probably because their first overtures had been with a shotgun, fortuitously poorly aimed. All their other efforts to drive him away or trap him failed just as miserably, which was probably a good thing as far as Shitboy was concerned, for a number of them were moderately life-threatening.

Over the years, it had remained the same. He'd appear and disappear like the smelly, ragged phantom he was and they'd lose a small amount of produce they could easily afford, but always bitterly resented. Ten years had elapsed, and still they failed to appreciate that trying to stop him was costing them far more than it was worth, even if the cost was measured only in stress.

And then that day arrived. Shitboy sat hunched up against the winter cold on his usual hilltop as the three of them climbed into the small truck they used on their rare trips out of the valley. He didn't know where they went, nor did he care. Nor did he take undue advantage of their short absences, save for his normal foraging.

This day was different though. Shitboy watched while the truck grew smaller as it sped past the levee to the side of the road, shielding his eyes from the shattered sunlight gleaming off the duckpond as the whine of the engine faded.

And then something happened. There was a sharp noise like a distant gunshot and the truck lurched violently to the right. Shitboy watched, intrigued, as it rocketed up the dirt bank, somersaulting lazily in the air before crashing upside-down into the water. He was surprised at how quickly it sank, rising slowly to his feet as the seconds passed and the ripples subsided. He'd expected splashing; bodies struggling in the water but there was nothing; it was as if no event had occured.

For nigh on an hour Shitboy remained where he was, gazing at the place where his tormenters had vanished ... and then he smiled. He'd always wondered what it would be like to have a house to live in ...
I'd be very interested in your comments - not so much about the writing, but about the boy, the family, the situation.

[Wordcount = 590.]
© 2010 - 2024 Centauran
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Hell-is-a-56's avatar
Whoa! Shit...too out of it to say why it's so great...but it's sooooo great!