The dawn of the following day arrived, shrouded in an air of anticipation as Barron sought out Marcus. With a sense of urgency, he approached his companion, his heart racing with excitement. In his palm, he held the two keys that Wilson had entrusted to him—a tangible reminder of the sacrifice his friend had made in the face of the tyranny of the workhouse. Each key glimmered softly in the light, a powerful symbol of hope and freedom: one key for the building itself, another for the gate that separated them from the outside world.
"Look, Marcus," Marcus said breathlessly, revealing the keys. "These are our way out. Wilson stood alone against the evil of the Master for these keys. He gave his life so that we could escape this wretched place, free from the constant pain of hunger and suffering."
Marcus's eyes widened as he grasped the weight of Marcus's words. They looked at each other, a shared understanding blossoming between them. Over the next few weeks, the two boys huddled together in quiet corners, discussing their plans and plotting their escape. They sketched out strategies on scrap paper, their minds racing with possibilities. Day after day, they schemed against their tormentors, growing more resolute with each passing moment.
One month after Wilson's tragic death, the boys worked diligently in the garden, their hands moving with purpose as they tended to the meager crops that struggled to thrive. Every so often, they would pause and look up the hill toward the cross that marked Wilson's final resting place. The sun shone brightly upon it, casting a radiant light through the lenses of Wilson's glasses, making the cross appear as if it were glowing—a silent signal from their fallen friend that the time to act was now.
In unison, the boys exchanged glances, their eyes reflecting the understanding that needed no words. The moment had arrived. Wilson had given them the keys to freedom, and they would not hesitate to use them today. They would reclaim their lives and never bow their heads to mere mortals again.
As the boys stood resolute, the garden staff member noticed their unusual inactivity in the garden. The staffer, infuriated by the sight of the idle children, marched up the hill with a determined stride, intent on punishing them for what he perceived as laziness. His footsteps echoed ominously as he approached, and the boys braced themselves for the confrontation that was about to unfold. The staffer throwing curses and insults towards the boys for looking toward the grave of their fallen brother. Reaching the peak the staffer grasped the cross and then a whistle pierced the air, cutting through the tension. Marcus stood defiantly at the foot of the hill, his stature imposing as he faced the enraged staff. A sense of fear flickered in his chest, an unfamiliar feeling that made him pause momentarily. In a flash, he unrolled a whip from his waistband, taking a menacing step toward Marcus. His courage powered by his whip and the staff members gazes from the building encouraging him to make an example of someone the bloodlust in the staff was palpable in the air.
The garden staff member was empowered to act as he heard his companions laughter ringing out as they anticipated the punishment that was about to befall Marcus. They joked among themselves, reveling in the thought of the whipping he would receive, but Marcus's unwavering gaze silenced them.
As the staff pulled the whip back, ready to deliver a savage lash, the boys' expressions transformed. Their smiles grew wider, an exhilaration coursing through them as they prepared to embrace the chaos of the moment. Just as the whip was about to strike, Barron surged forward from behind the staff, his body coiling with strength as he swung the sharpened shovel he had been holding. The metal blade connected with the Master's head, sending him sprawling to the ground, blood spraying into the air in a gruesome tribute to the lives he had taken. Wilson's cross splattered with blood of the cruel staff as the blood soaked into the ground to feed the revenge owed to the boys bones.
The boys stood wide-eyed, then erupted into laughter, the sound echoing across the garden as they witnessed the fall of their oppressor. "What do you think was the last thing that went through his mind?" one boy asked, his voice laced with incredulity.
"Probably something profound, like he was about to say a Children can never be in charge," another chimed in, grinning.
Marcus shook his head and declared, "No, nothing so philosophical, my friends… it was a shovel!" Laughter erupted among the boys once again, their spirits soaring as they reveled in the unexpected victory. Even in the face of uncertainty, they felt more alive than ever, embracing the joy of the moment as if it were a treasure.
With newfound determination, Marcus began to hurl the sharpened shovels, their edges gleaming in the bright sunlight—a stark contrast to the grim life they had endured. As they moved back to the hill, the boys whispered their thanks to Wilson, acknowledging that his spirit was with them in this fight for freedom.
Meanwhile, the staff who had been momentarily paralyzed in fear seeing the coworkers head explode just outside the window, now back to reality rushed through the building, alarmed by the uprising that was erupting in the garden. The staffers lifeless body lay sprawled on the ground, a grim reminder of the transformation that had taken place. The remaining staff members, clad in white, rushed toward the hill, their faces painted with confusion and fear.
As the boys stood united, laughter filling the air, they felt an unbreakable bond forming among them. The Master emerged from the building, his voice booming as he commanded the boys to put down their shovels and come along peacefully, promising that if they complied, they would not face the death they so rightly deserved.
The boys halted, their laughter subsiding as they exchanged knowing glances. Marcus, at the center of the group and holding two shovels, stepped forward with a grin. "So, what's it going to be?" the Master sneered, attempting to regain control of the situation.
Marcus replied with a nonchalant smile, "Me? I'm just the muscle," eliciting a small chuckle from the boys.
Before the Master could respond, a much smaller boy stepped forward, and Owen stepped aside to reveal Dexter, who had already drawn the whip from the fallen staff member. With a fierce swing, he unleashed the whip, as the whip flew he said once fear is overcome and death is accepted you can never be defeated, the whip tearing into the Master's face and ripping his skin apart and bursting one of his eye balls leaving him howling in agony as he fell back onto the ground.The screams reaching the sky's as he wiggled around the ground like a beheheaded snake. The screams becoming a background music to something that would haunt the dreams of most men something these boys would remember and celebrate for every year for all of time. An act that would immortalize a day for the descendants from this group of oppressed boys forever.
Marcus charged forward, wielding the two shovels, the widest smile, and with the ferocity of a warrior, cleaving through the staff members as they attempted to flee. As each swing removed limbs and ended lives, Marcus looked like a barbarian lord in the chaos. The boys' laughter rang out, a haunting melody of liberation as they ruthlessly fought against their oppressors. A few of the staff turned to run, but it was too late; the garden had transformed into a chaotic battlefield.
As the boys fought valiantly, a few of their comrades emerged from the building, covered in blood and wielding their own weapons. The battle halted as one boy coming out brandished the severed head of the Matron, an apple stuffed in her mouth, a macabre trophy that sent shivers down the spines of the remaining staff. The once-terrifying figures now stood paralyzed with fear, shaking uncontrollably as the boys advanced down the hill, closing in from all sides.
With a wicked grin, the boy holding the head shouted, "Baked or boiled?" The chilling silence that followed could have frozen the blood in their veins. Then, laughter erupted once more, a dark humor that lightened the grim atmosphere, as they recalled their long-running joke about cooking the fat Master and Matron.
Panic ensued as some staff members fainted, while others met the same grim fate as their fallen comrades. The remaining boys dragged the bodies into the center of the garden, creating a pile of logs and kindling atop which they would ignite their rebellion and burn the remains of the monsters that had beaten and abused them for as long as most of them could remember.
With a flick of a match, a flame sprang to life, engulfing the pile and sending embers soaring into the sky. The survivors awoke to the heat of the fire but found themselves trapped beneath the weight of the logs, their screams echoing into the night.
As the boys sat exhausted, watching the flames dance higher, they felt an overwhelming sense of liberation wash over them. They had transformed their pain into power, their laughter a testament to the freedom they had fought so hard to attain. With the fire illuminating the darkness, they embraced the promise of a new beginning, knowing that they had finally taken a stand against their oppressors.