EVERYONE REMEMBERS THEIR first time. It really does not matter whether you are male or female or whether it is the first time you kiss someone, the first time you achieve some significant milestone in your community’s collective memory or, for that matter, the first time you kill, and it happens to be your parents. It is bound to stay with you.
Long ago and far away in a land characterized by hate and violence there lived a young boy who was being carefully moulded into the very image of his land’s greatest heroes. A psychotic killer.
The best guess, based on what little is known, would be that he would have been maybe thirteen or fourteen. With a little poetic license and the available evidence, it might well have happened in the following way.
It was a typical white trailer-trash Friday night, pissing down rain – the place stunk of booze, sweat and franchise fried chicken. The dwelling in question was not actually a trailer, but a squatter shack typically inhabited by those of a lower economic stratum; somehow, that just doesn’t have quite the je ne-sais-quois of trailer-trash.
At some time in the distant past, the abode in question might have been what a real estate salesmen refer to as charming. Looking at it now, it exuded an air of fragility that might best be compared to an elderly gentleman going for a stroll in the corridors of a hospital. His cane, tapping on the floor, is held in his right hand and his IV pole floats along beside him, clutched in his left hand, which shows the bruising which is the result of repeated attempts to find a vein.
A nurse runs up to him from behind, “Oh dear, Mr. Johnson you forgot to do up your gown in the back again.” The old man replaces his grin with a vacant stare. Who knows? Maybe the old man just wanted to show the nurse his ass. After all, we never really change, we just become more devious. Once a dirty old man, always a dirty old man.
That’s the way it was with the house. It might be fragile. Or, maybe the house just wants to show you its ass.
So it was that it sat there huddled in the forest like the lost teddy bear of a lost child, shivering in the rain and feeling small and very aware of its vulnerability. Vulnerable, it may be, but vulnerable forest creatures that are cornered and frightened have a tendency to bite and they should not be underestimated.
The exterior was a wood clapboard-sided affair painted what was probably, at some point, a bright white with green trim around the windows. This was evident from the pieces of peeled paint that lay on the wrap-around porch. Two sinister-looking windows peered at anyone approaching from under the bushy unibrow of a wrap-around porch.
The sinister look was enhanced by a set of three rickety steps that allowed access to the porch through a pair of wooden columns on either side that had been covered in the same paint as the house. These columns were leaning out ever so slightly at the top, forming a gentle “V” that left the distinct impression that at any moment they could collapse, probably not today, but you never know. They were gamely trying to hold up the weight of the roof that extended out over the porch to both left and right and around both sides.
The porch was deep, and the roof of the porch was covered by the same wooden shingles of indeterminate age that tonight allowed rainwater to leak through in small spots inside the house and larger spots on the porch.
Inside, it was a five-room home decorated in a style known as early American junk or possibly illegitimately acquired American junk. To the right was a kitchen. Most of the appliances, apart from a dishwasher which was waiting patiently to be installed, worked. Much to the chagrin of the matron of the house, the installation of the dishwasher had been on hold for six months, and it was not clear whether it would happen any time soon.
The principal subject of our inquiries, a lad approaching his mid-teens, walked into the bedroom, and there she was. His mother was, as was her wont, pissed to the gills and passed out on the bed. Her night shirt/house dress was sort of cream coloured with little red flowers on it. The nightgown was reminiscent of what you might see being worn by a young heroine in a Disney movie as she creeps, teddy bear tightly clutched to her chest, down the stairs to investigate the strange noise in the middle of the night.
Unfortunately, this movie is not rated “G”. If a movie this is, it is a horror movie complete with real blood and guts, inhuman actors and profoundly horrible consequences.
All but the last few of the heretofore seemingly innocent buttons were scattered violently about, and the simple, elegant nightshirt was ripped open above his mother’s waist, and her breasts were clearly visible. What was left of the nightshirt and courtesy of the last couple of brave buttons, managed to keep the garment closed from her waist down to where the fabric was bunched around her upper thighs.
For most of us, the immediate urge, having found our mother in that state, would be to cover her up, get her to safety, call an ambulance, something, anything to help our mother. Not this kid.
Now in his early to mid-teens, he was getting toward 5’8”, skinny, maybe 120 pounds, longish brown hair carelessly slouching around his face. Looking at him, one could not help but wonder how he saw through that mess. For those of another generation, there might be a temptation to hold him down and cut that mess off. That might not be a good idea. It was worn this way specifically to piss people off, and he would defend his right to look shabby with everything he had. Those wishing to impinge on that right have to ask themselves, “Is this the hill I want to die on?”
He was actually a good-looking kid with casually cold blue eyes and even facial features. He wore a sleeveless black T-shirt with a large white skull and crossbones logo emblazoned on the front. Artfully inscribed above the logo were the words “EAT SHIT” and below the skull, just to complete the thought, were the words “AND DIE”. Certainly not a complete or very satisfying philosophical position, but one that encapsulated the young man’s outlook on life.
The jeans were relatively new, having been recently acquired via a ten-finger discount from a local clothing store. His sneakers, though, were his pride and joy. Classic Jordans in red, also acquired by questionable means. Their former owner was almost completely healed.
The kid’s arms were—like the rest of him—thin but corded with muscle. You could see him as a James Dean-like bad boy, complete with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a bottle of bourbon in his hand.
So far, his socialization had consisted of taking beatings from his father and passing them along to any of his peer group that happened to be within reach. His circle of friends consisted of young men who were currently in juvenile detention centers or headed there shortly. There were rumours that he himself would soon be required to have a date with a judge.
You could imagine him standing there at the end of the bed just looking at her, while he casually dripped water on the floor. Pathetic. Both of them. All of them. It could be said that his mother did not appear to be what might be considered the ideal for a modern mother. And, as long we are passing judgement, he must have looked like a kid too stupid to come in out of the rain.
Well, actually, he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. His old man had stuck him on the porch in the pouring rain so he and his mother… “could have a decent fuck. You’re too old to be listenin’ to us goin’ at it. You’re a fuckin’ little pervert if you ask me.”
Well, he hadn’t asked. And, if the dumb son-of-a-bitch had been so worried about what might have been heard or seen, he should have at least closed the bedroom window or the curtain, for that matter. As it was, he might as well have brought in the local sports channel and broadcast it in HD with slow-motion replays.
You might think that a “decent fuck” might include the willing participation by both parties. Not so much. The mature female of this little menage-a-whatever was in the kitchen staring at a pile of dirty dishes and the remnants of a week’s worth of pizza boxes. Her husband loved his pizza. Not that she was a terrible cook. She was actually more than competent and had worked part-time in the kitchen of a pretty good pub before life interfered. It was just that she couldn’t be bothered anymore, and he loved his pizza.
So, there she was in the kitchen finishing a smoke when his holiness walks in and, without so much as a “by your leave,” grabs her by the hair and starts dragging her toward the back of the house and more specifically, the bedroom.
“You need to be taught a lesson,” says he without specifying what that lesson might be. And, always quick with a witty rejoinder, “Fuck you,” says she.
A few moments after our young lad got as comfortable as a guy could get with rain dripping on his head, in comes dear old dad dragging the boy’s sweet little mother by a fistful of her shoulder-length mousy brown hair.
His father had spent his whole life taking whatever he wanted. Occasionally, much to the chagrin of local law enforcement authorities. This had gotten him a couple of short stints as a guest of the taxpayer.
His time as an incarcerated resident had also earned him a reputation as a particularly nasty piece of work. He was the kind of guy you crossed to the other side of the street to avoid. He was the kind of guy who crossed the street to punch your lights out just because he could. He wasn’t a really big guy, maybe 5’11’ or so, and 175 or 180 pounds. But it was all muscle, ugly attitude and a significant lack of intellectual curiosity.
His wife was a small woman, about 5’2”, maybe 110 pounds. She had been one of those girls who just grew up way too fast. By the time she was 16, she could pass for 21, and she liked boys with a reputation. It was probably inevitable that by the time she was 17 or maybe 18 she would be pregnant and married to a boy with a troubled past and a bad attitude.
Really, the whole little tableau unfolding before us here was as predictable as the rain itself. Sooner or later, it was bound to happen. So, when dear old dad had escorted mum from the kitchen, he threw her on to the bed. By that, it is meant to say that she literally flew through the air. Much swearing and shouting ensued, followed by grunting and moaning.
A welder by trade, the old man had strong hands, and he used one of them to pin her arms down. He pushed himself between her legs and used the other hand to rip her shirt open and fumble with his fly. The whole process took maybe ten minutes from the time he threw her on the bed till she stomped into the bathroom, and he staggered out to watch TV.
What may have been unexpected, at least by the parental units, or perhaps not, was that as the young man watched, something broke. But, maybe, that too was as inevitable as the rain. Whatever it was, the kid realized that there was nothing here for him, and that there never would be. Time for a change. And he could think of only one way to manage it.
So, there he was, having allowed a respectable amount of time to go by, at the foot of the bed. He reached out and shook her big toe just to see how out of it she really was. At this point, it is not certain whether what followed was planned or whether it just happened. But it is safe to say that both the parents in this little domestic disaster would have been very surprised by what happened next. Although they should not have been. Their relationship with their only child was shaped by the fact that early on, his mother had seen way too much of his father in the little rascal. Her response had been characterized by an approach that generally consisted of slaps to the head.
At some point, the young man had grown weary of the inevitable chastisement and had simply told her: “If you do that again, I’ll break your fuckin’ arm.”
And she believed him. Henceforth, she opted to live around him rather than with him. So, at the age of eleven or thereabouts, parental guidance, in any form, came to a screeching halt.
For his part, his father was far more interested in getting drunk, getting laid and beating the crap out of whoever looked like an easy target. He blamed his wife for being so stupid as to get pregnant and hated the kid for his mere existence. His approach to parenting was not that different from the lady of the house. Except, slaps were replaced by significant beatings. After, all the easiest targets were his wife and his son and not necessarily in that order.
When the boy was about eight, the sheriff had arrived at the house with the young man in tow. He had tried to steal a bottle of bourbon from a local store and had gotten caught in the act. The law had left the boy in the care of his father with a stern warning. The result was that the boy was left bleeding and battered on the porch of the house – not for stealing, but because he got caught.
His father had told him, “Don’t come back without a bottle.”
Showing up with the sheriff and no bottle was a slight beyond endurance. It took two weeks for the kid to be able to breathe properly. This was not an isolated incident, and the result was that the young man’s problem-solving skills essentially consisted of beating the crap out of the problem. Well, like father, like son.
In any event, there were certainly easier ways to accomplish what the boy wanted to accomplish. Daddy kept a loaded 12-gauge pump action shotgun in the bedroom closet, which, as part of the slow turning to manhood, he had decided it was necessary for the young man to know how to use, just in case someone of inappropriate racial heritage should happen to slight him. The boy could have just grabbed the gun and blown his old man’s head off. We don’t know why he did what he did, but he probably recognized his predicament and thought, “Enough of this bullshit. Nothing is going to change unless I make it change.” You might say he was a real take-charge kind of guy.
