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Rek's Memories of Valiant (For Fun- Passing Time)

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Rek's Memories of Valiant (For Fun- Passing Time)

Post by *Smoke* on 31/03/14, 07:04 pm


The Only Memory of His Father

"Now remember Derek, you aim for legs when knocking an enemy off his feet, torso to injure him, and head to make him unconscious," I looked at my father intently as he described this. He took his job seriously; never did you see my father in a calm manner. He was always tense, always prepared for a fight. It made people respect him- it made me respect him.
We don't have a close, father and son relationship, and I'm 8 years old and I can tell that. The only things he teaches me is manners and fighting skills. I have grown to the size of a 10 year old boy, and have the muscles of one as well because of this. I look so much older than my school peers, but in Valiant, they worshipped that, instead of recoil from it.
I was powerful and all adults look at me as though I am going to become a great Valiant leader. But not my father. He sees a little boy, a wannabe. He does not approve of me, and I know this. But I do not know why.
He shows me how to hit the dummy in front of me in the neck with the butt of a gun. How fluid his motions always were made it look easy, possible, flawless. But when it is my turn, my motions are stocky and untrained.
I grab the empty gun from my father, who moves out of the way so I can have a turn. My hand tightens around the gun, almost scared of it. When my father sees the expression on my face, his gaze softens. My body tenses, not used to this face of my father. He is usually cold and reprimanding.
He bends down to my height, which is not far. But he too is a tall person, almost 6' 8".
"Guns are not evil, Derek. Humans are. Humans created the gun, to be evil. But it can do great things as well. Now, try." With the last two words, he stands up and regains his blank features.
My loose hold on the gun then hardens, driven by my father's odd words. My face, as I can feel, is as cold and hard as his. I feel my muscles become taut as my jaw does at the same time.
I thrust my dominant hand back and aim with my left. With an almost liquid-like action, my aiming hand goes down and the other comes forward onto the dummy. I feel the gun slightly recoil from the power in the hit, but I swing through. It hits the dummy in the neck, right where my father had told me to aim.
With a small grunt from the force that it takes to stop the gun, I look at the dummy proudly. I had made a cut in the neck, which the material was supposed to be durable. I see a small smile come from my father's mouth before it quenches itself quickly. But I still see it. He is proud of me too.
I do this repeatedly, doing well each time. As my father's cleans everything up with me, as we are about to leave, he looks at me. "You'd make a good soldier, Derek."
The compliment makes me glow. But one day, I would see it as a death sentence. I know I will.


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