My name is Little Pete. I was a 14 year old when I found the box at the abandoned old factory.
I wasn’t right in the head at that age, still developing and learning. I knew right from wrong. That’s what I would have said anyway if you asked me.
It was a cold day November, dark and ominous. I had been playing out with my friends when they all went home leaving me feeling like doing something fun. I didn’t want to go back home, sit in, eat food I didn’t like, watch goofy programs that would have me lost in a blur of white noise. That box could forever remain undiscovered for all I gave a shit.
All though I didn’t know it, my whole life had been about wanting the contents to this particular box. Waiting for the inevitable showdown. In my imagination, that box was everything I could ever dream. It was a billion pounds or something that would forever take me away from the blacks and white and dull grey to a colorful place full of energy, mystery and a place where all my dreams could be fulfilled.
You could say in truth, that’s what was inside the box. The perfect thing. Only the facts of life are hard to swallow. To dig a hole you need a spade and good health to achieve the end product. All the wanting and deserving in the world won't dig that hole. YOU have to get stuck in, get your hands dirty. Perhaps even uncover something right beneath your feet. Something frightening about yourself or the world you are in.
First thing I did when I opened the box I smiled. I know that’s sick but like I said I wasn’t fully right in the head. My smile spread like a disease across my face, infecting my brain and then everything. It was a shiny weapon, brand spanking new, with a smell that stole the breath from my lungs. A dangerous smell like pure death.
It was a long range sniper rifle, crisp and new. You could smell the cleaning oil that had been freshly applied to the gas block. I was 14 years old. Immune from prosecution.