Sweet and soured

He checked the catridge of the gun. One more bullet left. He raised it up. Pointed. Fired. 

Willy came home. He unlocked the front door with his key and pushed the door open. He passed through the kitchen and went straight to the fridge. He opened and closed different containers, looking for something to eat before he went to bed. He found some rice, found a spoon in the cabinet and sat down to eat his breakfast.

His mother came down stairs. She stopped at the door and looked at him from head to toe. She stood, frozen in time, as Willy chewed the cold, dry rice. She looked like she wanted to say something, but looked like she had forgotten what it was mid-sentence. This was her son. The one who God had blessed her with. She had to do something. If she didn't, he would come back in a body bag.

Willy looked oblivious and in his own little world. He jerked from his day dream and started emptying out his pockets. His mother just watched. She wanted to protest. They had had this conversation for awhile. However, nothing ever went through to him. She had asked that he should not bring the 'loot' to her house. He would always respond by disappearing for a couple of months. She would be left traumatised and regretting her actions. She hated what he did, but she loved him. He was her son.

She walked towards him. He checked his gun, aimed and shot.