Why?

 

Andy rode his razor scooter in front of the house. He felt each bump as he rode over the separations of the sidewalk blocks. Turning around at the end of the yard, he rode back, turning up the pathway that led to the front door, almost falling over from turning too sharply.

Turning around when he bumped into the first step leading up to the porch, Andy saw the neighbor man, Mr. Wilkes, standing at the end of the pathway looking at him. Mr. Wilkes was a nice old man, giving Andy extra candy on Halloween, and sometimes letting him play in his swimming pool on really hot days.

“Hey Mr. Wilkes,” Andy said, riding his scooter up to the old man, stopping a few feet away, struggling to come to a complete stop. He had gotten the scooter for his birthday a week before, and was still getting used to it.

“Hey, Andy”, the old man said. He fought back tears as he said the boy’s name. Looking down at the little boy, his blond hair gently moving with each small blow of the breeze, an innocent smile painted on his lips, not a hint of wrong in his eyes. “Andy, can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Andy replied. He liked Mr. Wilkes, but he wanted to ride his scooter, and the man was in his way. Mr. Wilkes was smiling, but his eyes were glossy, tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes. Both of his hand’s were in his pockets, and his usual attire, a button up and slacks, looked different. His shirt was untucked, and his pants were all wrinkly.

“Do you love your parents Andy?” the old man asked, the first tear rolling down his cheek.

“Of course I do. Did you see the scooter they got me for my birthday?” Andy tried to bunny hop with it, but yet again almost fell over, giggling at himself.

“Good, good,” Mr. Wilkes said, taking his left hand out of his pocket to rub Andy’s head. He felt the child’s blond hair play between his fingers as he gently rubbed, playfully like a father might do to his son. “And, do you think your parent’s love you Andy?”

“Duh. Did you not see my scooter?” Mr. Wilkes laughed at this, not being able to control himself anymore, the tears now free falling, gathering in the wrinkles on his face, tracing out the lines of age.

“Good. Good. Now, do you think God loves you Andy?” Mr. Wilkes shivered as he asked this question.

“My mommy says he does. It says so in the bible. Why?” Andy was confused, and done with answering questions. He just wanted to ride his scooter.

“Andy. God doesn’t love you.” Pulling his right hand out of his pocket, in a white knuckle grip on the gun, he pointed it at the child’s head. Andy knew what it was, he had toy guns, watched movies. But all those thoughts ended as the trigger was pulled.

Mr. Wilkes felt the twitch in his index finger, the ripple in his wrist, the shock in his hand. Watching as the frail boy fell to the ground, the pathway behind him now painted red with a hint of white.

Andy’s parents ran from inside, seeing their child, their only child, lying on the ground, his blood, brain matter, and skull fragments covering their sidewalk and yard. Staring into the eyes of Mr. Wilkes, their neighbor, the man that they thought couldn’t hurt a fly, the man who gave them a fruitcake for Christmas.

Putting the gun to his own temple, he pulled the trigger, looking into the eyes of the parents. The parents of the boy he just murdered. Andy’s mother stood in shock as her husband cradled their baby boy, his blood covering his father’s blue dress shirt. They had been preparing dinner, and now, now their son was dead.

And the worst part of it. They couldn’t ask the monster why.