Abacus

then, but he sure could now. He only wished he could go back in time as Randall the adult.
    He recalled that traumatic night that would change his life forever. He was only a little nine-year-old at the time. He was in the kitchen with his mum, it was evening, and he was dressed in his pyjamas, ready for bed. There was a knock at the door, which was odd as they lived on an acreage property with no neighbours for miles.
    His dad answered the door . Then came the yelling and screaming. He wasn’t sure what it was but he hadn’t heard his dad ever raise his voice like that before. As the two intruders forced their way in, furniture was thrown around the house and a small wall table came crashing into the kitchen. His mum panicked and pushed him under the kitchen table, hidden by the tablecloth. She ran into the lounge room to help, and yelled uncontrollably as the melee spilled into the kitchen. Young Randall peeked from under the table just in time to see one of the intruders swing a baseball bat, which hit his father flush across the head. The sickening crack echoed through the kitchen as his father spun around and hit the tiled floor hard, about a metre from where he hid.
    His father looked up at him with a stunned, lifeless look . Bright red blood gushed down his face and pooled under his head. His legs kicked up and down in a fitting motion. When he stopped kicking, Randall knew he was dead. The pool of blood quickly spread, growing larger and larger until it engulfed him under the table.
    Tears rolled down his chee ks as his small hands, knees and feet became drenched in his father’s warm blood. But he dared not move, he dared not make a sound. He heard his mother’s plea. “Help, please help, someone,” as Jenkins dragged her by her hair along the kitchen floor while laughing loudly. He would never forget that laugh. To stop her screaming she was repeatedly punched in the face. She lay there on the floor next to her dead husband while her clothing was forcefully ripped from her body. Jenkins raped her while Fleming watched on and cheered.
    Once Jenkins had had his way with her, he opened up the kitchen drawer and pulled out a large carving knife. Sitting on top of his mother and pinning her shoulders, he held the knife high above her head. “Does she have to die?” Fleming pleaded.
    “Just shut the fuck up. She’s a witness,” Jenkins hissed. Smiling at her, he plunged the blade deep into her throat. Randall heard a loud noise as the tip of the blade passed straight through her and impacted with the ceramic tiles on the floor. Tears ran down Randall’s face as he shook uncontrollably. He made a mental note of Jenkins face. That smug expression was now burnt into his mind. Randall’s innocence was lost at the moment and his childhood gone forever. Jenkins would have no idea of the ruthless, hardened, vengeful man he had just created. A man whose sole purpose in life would be to end his, and kill those who shared his penchant for violent crime. The chain of events Jenkins had set in motion had condemned him to a life of fear. A life he knew was destined to end violently.
    Randall’s mother looked back at him and mouthed the words, I love you , as blood flowed freely from the gaping wound in her neck. Jenkins looked up at where she was looking and saw him hidden under the table. Smiling broadly he walked towards Randall with the bloodied knife still in his hand. Young Randall got from under the table and ran from the kitchen, leaving bloodied footprints behind as they pursued him.
    Once out in the dark ness, he had the advantage as he darted in and out of the farm machinery, which up until this time had provided daily entertainment for him. He could hear the intruders swear and curse as they tripped and ran into the obstacles he had negotiated with ease. Running through the dark, his eyes adjusted sufficiently to enable him to look for places to hide. He ran behind a small shrub on the far side of the yard, pulled himself under its thick foliage and hugged its small trunk.
    He wasn’t sure how far away the intruders were, he could only gauge by their voices. “Wait here, I’ll get a torch from inside,” one called. Randall could see the other standing in the middle of the yard, slowly turning around as he searched. The second man soon returned with a torch.
    “Where are you little man, we won’t hurt you,” they teased as they searched under torchlight. Randall held his breath as best as he