My family recently gathered to celebrate my father's 80th birthday. My sister asked each of us to put together stories about our dad to share at the party. All the reminiscences reminded me of this story I wrote many years ago. I have refrained from publishing it because it is so vicious. But I think the writing is good, and the story should be included in the overall body of my work. Be FOREWARNED: this piece is NOT for everybody!
* * * * * * * * * * * *
HATRED. PURE HATRED. Hatred that darkly fired darkly fired eyes. Hatred that shattered along every nerve of a very nervous nervous system. High tension wire hatred. Hatred with a plan.
He had the pipe, he had the rope, he had the carving knife, patiently honed.
He sat quiet in the shadows behind a hedge across the street down the block. He sat quiet as the last light upstairs went dark. He sat quiet and listened to the night noises as they tripped off to dreamland, secure in their suburban fortress, with the deadbolt thrown and the chain on the door.
“Let's go! It's time to hit the road. Get moving. Get your lazy ass in gear. Get the show on the road. Half the day's gone. You should be out pounding the bricks for 10 hours a day until you land a job. You're not going to school, you're not working. Life isn't one big vacation. What are you going to do with yourself!?”
Bastard!
Oh so quietly he fit the key in the lock. Oh so quietly he took the bolt cutters from his pocket and snipped the chain. Oh so quietly he slipped inside, shut and relocked the door. The house seemed tomb-like. He quietly entered his sister's room, the moon casting a wraith-light through the yellow lace curtains. Stuffed animals plotted evil in the night. Their glass eyes burned, reflecting the moonlight, or did they merely reflect the cold fire that burned in his eyes? That cool quiet fire that would soon turn their universe to cinders.
He looked down at his sister in her canopied bed, half covered by the yellow comforter, curly red hair splayed about the pillow sham, breathing gently. The knife ran deep and clean across her throat. The blood spattered on the wall like the freckles on his sister's face. The stuffed animals nodded in acknowledgement as he left the room.
“This is my house. When you're in my house you either abide by the house rules or you can pack your things and leave. You come in when I tell you. You go to bed when I say it's time. You shut that goddamn hi-fi off when I say it's too loud.”
Bastard!
Quietly he entered his brother's room. The shades were drawn and the only light glowed faintly orange from the digital clock on the desk. A wooden shelving unit next to the desk was filled with Little League trophies. Sports equipment lay scattered about the room. His brother lay on his side, blue blanket around his waist, snoring lightly.
The pipe came down hard and fast. He felt no pain. His dream had simply ended. The gold and silver-plated figures on the trophies turned to watch, and one let the little silver bat fall from its grasp to the floor.
“When I was your age I was walking two miles to school every day and getting good grades, working part-time, and I gave all my earnings to my father. You kids today expect everything handed to you on a silver platter. You've got it too damned soft. Your generation is a generation of quitters!”
Bastard!
Quietly he entered his parent's room. He closed the door behind him and turned the lock. He leaned back against the door and drew a deep breath. He snapped on the light. His parents snapped awake as instantly as the ceiling fixture. The electricity was thick in that room.
What the hell!” his father started.
“Fuck you,” he said smiling.
His father got up from the bed wearing only a pair of white boxer shorts with little coats of arms. “What the hell do you think you're doing!?!”
“I'm taking over this house,” he said still smiling, leaning against the door.
“The hell you are you two-bit punk!” said his father grabbing the belt off the dresser.
The smile left his face. He moved his hands from behind his back, revealing the bloodied lead pipe and knife. His old man saw the pipe, but not in time. Straight to the gut hard. His father crumpled in his tracks, eyes straining in their sockets, unable to draw in air, doubled over on the floor.
“You goddamn mother-fucker. The only reason I don't kill you now's because I expect you to suffer first.”
Thrusting himself forward, he planted a savage kick to the side of his father's head. His father's moans gurgled as blood filled his mouth. Watching his father's blood trickle into the gold shag carpeting, he shot a glance at his mother still in bed, the covers pulled up above her nose, eyes wide and white with fear. He had special plans for her. Without saying a word, he tied his old man roughly, the raw hemp burning flesh, cutting off circulation. He took a dirty sock from the foot of the bed and jammed it in his father's mouth.
Bastard!
* * * * * * * * * * * *
HATRED. PURE HATRED. Hatred that darkly fired darkly fired eyes. Hatred that shattered along every nerve of a very nervous nervous system. High tension wire hatred. Hatred with a plan.
He had the pipe, he had the rope, he had the carving knife, patiently honed.
He sat quiet in the shadows behind a hedge across the street down the block. He sat quiet as the last light upstairs went dark. He sat quiet and listened to the night noises as they tripped off to dreamland, secure in their suburban fortress, with the deadbolt thrown and the chain on the door.
“Let's go! It's time to hit the road. Get moving. Get your lazy ass in gear. Get the show on the road. Half the day's gone. You should be out pounding the bricks for 10 hours a day until you land a job. You're not going to school, you're not working. Life isn't one big vacation. What are you going to do with yourself!?”
Bastard!
Oh so quietly he fit the key in the lock. Oh so quietly he took the bolt cutters from his pocket and snipped the chain. Oh so quietly he slipped inside, shut and relocked the door. The house seemed tomb-like. He quietly entered his sister's room, the moon casting a wraith-light through the yellow lace curtains. Stuffed animals plotted evil in the night. Their glass eyes burned, reflecting the moonlight, or did they merely reflect the cold fire that burned in his eyes? That cool quiet fire that would soon turn their universe to cinders.
He looked down at his sister in her canopied bed, half covered by the yellow comforter, curly red hair splayed about the pillow sham, breathing gently. The knife ran deep and clean across her throat. The blood spattered on the wall like the freckles on his sister's face. The stuffed animals nodded in acknowledgement as he left the room.
“This is my house. When you're in my house you either abide by the house rules or you can pack your things and leave. You come in when I tell you. You go to bed when I say it's time. You shut that goddamn hi-fi off when I say it's too loud.”
Bastard!
Quietly he entered his brother's room. The shades were drawn and the only light glowed faintly orange from the digital clock on the desk. A wooden shelving unit next to the desk was filled with Little League trophies. Sports equipment lay scattered about the room. His brother lay on his side, blue blanket around his waist, snoring lightly.
The pipe came down hard and fast. He felt no pain. His dream had simply ended. The gold and silver-plated figures on the trophies turned to watch, and one let the little silver bat fall from its grasp to the floor.
“When I was your age I was walking two miles to school every day and getting good grades, working part-time, and I gave all my earnings to my father. You kids today expect everything handed to you on a silver platter. You've got it too damned soft. Your generation is a generation of quitters!”
Bastard!
Quietly he entered his parent's room. He closed the door behind him and turned the lock. He leaned back against the door and drew a deep breath. He snapped on the light. His parents snapped awake as instantly as the ceiling fixture. The electricity was thick in that room.
What the hell!” his father started.
“Fuck you,” he said smiling.
His father got up from the bed wearing only a pair of white boxer shorts with little coats of arms. “What the hell do you think you're doing!?!”
“I'm taking over this house,” he said still smiling, leaning against the door.
“The hell you are you two-bit punk!” said his father grabbing the belt off the dresser.
The smile left his face. He moved his hands from behind his back, revealing the bloodied lead pipe and knife. His old man saw the pipe, but not in time. Straight to the gut hard. His father crumpled in his tracks, eyes straining in their sockets, unable to draw in air, doubled over on the floor.
“You goddamn mother-fucker. The only reason I don't kill you now's because I expect you to suffer first.”
Thrusting himself forward, he planted a savage kick to the side of his father's head. His father's moans gurgled as blood filled his mouth. Watching his father's blood trickle into the gold shag carpeting, he shot a glance at his mother still in bed, the covers pulled up above her nose, eyes wide and white with fear. He had special plans for her. Without saying a word, he tied his old man roughly, the raw hemp burning flesh, cutting off circulation. He took a dirty sock from the foot of the bed and jammed it in his father's mouth.
Bastard!
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