Journal Of Vengeance - NEW!!!
By Joseph Klare
Tuesday, July 13, 8:26 p.m.-
I do not write this to prove I have my wits about me. Whether I’m sane or not is really of no one’s concern. Neither is what I’m going to do. My thoughts and deeds are no one’s business but my own.
I write this for my own edification. Something of my own making, to be looked back on with pride. Something that will bring vivid memories back to me, even in my old age.
I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do, as of yet. As I write this, I sit in my mother’s car, the faint glow of a nearby streetlight the only thing that enables me to see the page.
My poor mother. She died just five weeks ago. Lung Cancer, from some 35 years of smoking cigarettes. Her last days were excruciating beyond description.
But my poor mother is only part of the cause for this journal. The main part sits only 200 feet from me, across the street from where I am parked, safe in his warm, cozy house with his new wife and two year-old daughter.
He is the memory that eats at me. His horrific and ignominious death will be my salvation.
Wednesday, July 14, 1:42 a.m.-
I’ve just returned from a trip around the house, familiarizing myself with its layout. As far as I can make out, his bedroom is in the southwest corner, on the second floor. The living room is on the first floor, in front, with the dining room and kitchen filling out the ground floor. There is a basement, but I couldn’t see into it. There will be plenty of time for all that.
I can barely picture his face in my mind anymore. It’s been over eleven years since I’ve seen him close up. But I remember what he did, and that’s what makes killing him so necessary.
The breeze has turned cold as I write. The trees that line my side of the street blow and bend, occasionally blocking my writing light. His house is dark, as is the rest of the block. Time to go home and snatch a few hours sleeps.
Wednesday, July 14, 7:51 a.m.-
His wife just left, most probably for work. He doesn’t work, which isn’t a big surprise. He didn’t work much when he was married to my mother. He was too busy beating the hell out of her. It took up a lot of his time over a five-year period.
She didn’t take the kid, which meant the kid stayed with daddy all day. I couldn’t do it with the kid there.
The sun has been up for awhile, and the inside of the car is warming up already. It’s supposed to be hot as hell today. But I’ll stay and watch. I have to get used to his patterns, and those of his family. It is not my intention to get caught. I will have the freedom to enjoy my vengeance.
Wednesday, July 14, 3:23 p.m.-
The guy on the radio says its 94 degrees, which makes it over 100 in this car, with its dark seats and black dashboard. Sweat drips off my forehead and onto the notebook. He hasn’t left the house all day, and his wife should be home soon.
Nothing, including the searing heat, will deter me from my purpose. I will choose the perfect opportunity. What exactly I will do remains to be seen. A few ideas are forming in my head, and he will be dead; that is for sure. But what form the agony of his last hours will take, I haven’t decided. I’ve waited 11 years; a few more days won’t make a difference.
If anything, those extra days will enhance my plan, and my resolve.
Thursday, July 15, 6:32 a.m.-
I dreamt of him last night. Snatching a few hours sleep, I was haunted by him.
When it was, I have no idea. My dreams are usually hazy at best, so it could have been one of any number of days from my past. I was sitting in my room, a young boy, curled up on my bed. My mother’s room was right next to mine, and the walls were thin. I put my hands over my ears to block out her screaming, and the sickening thud of bone colliding with bone.
He would beat her about the arms and chest with closed fists, then slap her face, to minimize the public bruising. And when he drank, he would break her bones: fingers, a wrist, both ankles. She lost eight teeth during the five years she spent with him.
In my dream she died of her wounds. He couldn’t hurt her ever again.
Thursday, July 15, 7:22 p.m.-
The last two days, his wife has gotten home around 20 minutes after 5. I’ve decided that if he is always with the kid, I will lock the kid in a different room. At least he won’t see it.
Today was scorching, and I probably lost 10 pounds in sweat. He is in air-conditioning all day. I hope he enjoys it.
I also hope they all go somewhere this weekend. Going into the house will give me a better idea of what is possible.
The sun will be down soon, and the air will start to cool. Tonight I will go back around the house, checking for weakness; somewhere to break in if I can.
Friday, July 16, 9:36 a.m.-
A woman who is not his wife just arrived and knocked on the front door. I imagine he’s cheating on his wife, as well as probably beating her. Not that it’s any of my concern. If cheating on my mother was the worst he did to her, I wouldn’t be sitting here, slowly cooking in this car.
I can see her face as if it were right in front of me. A single tear rolling down her cheek, pausing slightly at the top of the red welt on her cheek that he gave her with his open hand. The welt would be gone by the next day, but the memory of her trying not to cry in front of me will always be singed onto my brain. Even after vengeance is mine.
The woman still hasn’t come out. She’s been in there over forty minutes. I doubt they are just shooting the breeze. If she’s around if an opportunity presents itself, she’ll have to go too. She is nothing to me.
Friday, July 16, 11:47 p.m.-
It is dark, but the air really isn’t cooling off. Temp is still in the low 80’s.
At about nine-thirty, he and his wife came out onto their front porch, and took seats on a large swing. Why they came out of the A.C., I have no idea. The kid must have been asleep inside.
Taking a chance, and hoping they would be outside for awhile, I left the car and jogged all the way around the block, then went through their back and side yards, stopping close enough to the front porch to hear what they were saying. I brought my .38 with me, with the silencer screwed on. If by some chance they caught me, the wife would die too.
His voice was much the same as I remembered it, as was his tone. He was condescending toward his wife, when he wasn’t downright hostile. He picked at her job, the way she raised the kid, the way the spaghetti they had for supper tasted like shit. She didn’t talk back. She knew what she would get if she did, and might get even if she stayed silent. I couldn’t see them, so I don’t know if he was drinking. If he was…well, the kid won’t be getting much sleep tonight.
Eventually I had to sit on the concrete, as my legs were tingling from standing so long. But the wait was well worth it. He soon got around to bad-mouthing his wife’s sister, which didn’t interest me, but what did was his brief mention of his wife going to her sister’s this weekend, along with the kid.
He wasn’t telling her she couldn’t go. I got the feeling his whore was going to be stopping by this weekend. His badgering was more along the lines of, “Gee, I’m glad you’re getting the hell out of here and taking that little snot machine with you. And no, don’t say hi to your sister for me, she’s a worthless cunt, just like you are.”
Everything I needed to know was handed to me on a silver tray. I didn’t find out when she was leaving, but I didn’t care. I will see her leave with the kid, then I’ll tie him up and wait for his whore to arrive. I’ll kill her quick; I don’t know her, and I’ll need my energy for him.
After they went back inside, I snuck back the way I came and got back into the car. I can go get some sleep now. Tomorrow may be the big day.
Saturday, July 17, 10:18 A.M.-
I’ve been here since seven. Their car is still here, and no one has stirred from the house.
The temp will go over 100 again today. At least, once I’m inside, I’ll be able to work in the cool air. Nothing will rush me. Even if the wife comes back before I’m finished. That will be her bad luck. I’ve invested too much into this, physically and emotionally. He will have time to wish he’d never met my mother. Time to hate me with every fiber of his being. Time to wish he’d never been born.
Saturday, July 17, 2:51p.m.-
She hasn’t left yet. My entire body is covered in sweat. I try not to move too much, and writing seems to take my mind off the heat.
I try to think of cool places, but the sweat rolls into my eyes, and it stings. I blink a few times and look out the windshield. The wavy heat lines are coming off the black top of the street I’m parked on. The street he lives on.
I wish I could somehow use this extreme heat in my vengeance. But as much as I’ve pondered it, I can’t see how, unless I bring him outside. Which I cannot do. I’ll have to gag him to muffle the screams as it is.
Saturday, July 17, 6:31 p.m.-
The Gods of vengeance, if they exist, have surely smiled on me. As I write this, she is leaving the house, the kid on her arm, and he is trailing behind her, lugging two suitcases. They’ll be gone at least overnight, which will give me plenty of time.
Saturday, July 17, 6:55 p.m.-
I am inside and he is tied to a chair across from me with extension cords. His mouth is gagged and his cold blue eyes, eyes I used to fear like Satan himself, are staring daggers at me. I do not fear them. I soak up their hatred.
My ruse to get inside was brilliant. I knocked on his door, then bent over like I was seriously ill. When he opened up, I stumbled past him into the house, babbling about calling an ambulance. When he turned to ask what the fuck I was doing, I turned swiftly and caught him flush on the cheek with the butt of m .38. He staggered back into the door, closing it with a loud thump. I was on him before he knew what had happened, giving him a few more whacks with the gun. Then it was just a matter of securing his limp frame to the chair.
He woke up a few minutes ago. He looks much older, which I guess is expected. His hair is graying around the temples, and he’s tacked on about 30 pounds, causing a double-chin and man-boobs.
He isn’t struggling. I’m sure he thinks I’ll fuck this up, and he’ll be able to escape like fucking James Bond or something. Well, this isn’t a movie, something he’ll find out after his whore gets here.
Saturday, July 17, 7:38 p.m.-
She arrived about 10 after, and it wasn’t hard to subdue her and get her tied up. She has a chair right next to his. She doesn’t look defiant; she looks scared shitless. As she should be. She picked the wrong guy to fuck.
Even scared, she looks pretty good. Large brown eyes and curly, dark blonde hair. Full pink lips. “Why the hell you fucking him?” I ask her, but she doesn’t respond. She is gagged as well.
Looking around his house, I see he has some nice stuff. His wife must get paid well. Her money will go even farther when she doesn’t have this albatross around her neck.
Now that I’m in the cool air, I’m in no hurry. I will savor every moment. Kill her, then have him at my leisure.
Saturday, July 17, 9:09 p.m.-
She looks the same dead as she did alive. Wide, frightened eyes. Losing color in her face though, underneath the specks of blood.
And he doesn’t look so smug since I put a bullet through her forehead. I’m sure he’s hoping his end will be that quick. Hope is all he can do now.
I think I’ve finally decided on what I’m going to do. It won’t be easy, but it will be worth it. When his body is found, it will be the talk of the region, maybe even the country for a little while.
He’ll have to be unconscious while I get it set up, but I’m afraid to hit him again with the gun butt. Accidentally killing him is the last thing I want to do after all this work. I’ll have to find some kind of chemical. Something to knock him out a while.
Saturday, July 17, 11:41 p.m.-
Phase one is done.
I used a Clorox-soaked rag to knock him out. He started coming to about three minutes later, so I did it again. By the time he awoke again, I had him secured.
What he was secured to was a large wooden cross I fashioned from wooden beams in his basement. I tied him to the cross with the extension cords, and left it lying on the floor. To make room, I had to push the living room furniture into the kitchen. I used gloves at all times. I saw on a show one time about how they can get your fingerprints from the inside of a latex glove, so I will burn them when I am done.
To further secure him, and to continue his night of pain, I nailed his hands and feet to the cross, Jesus-style. He screamed into his gag, but the sound was scarcely audible.
After getting the nails in, I propped him against the wall, but he kept jerking his body, toppling it to the floor. I laid the cross back on the floor, letting him bleed a little while, as I thought about how to get the cross to stand on it’s own.
He is whimpering now. The pain must have been unbearable after the nails went in, but I think it is abating now. That will have to be remedied. I must get the cross standing, because according to the books I read, that’s were the torture really comes in; being suspended from the cross for hours, as your life slowly drains away.
Sunday, July 18, 12:33 a.m.-
The cross is up.
After knocking him out again with the rag, I simply nailed the cross to the wall, through just the wood this time. I had to clear the wall of a lot of stupid pictures, him and his wife, smiling, happy, but I finally got the cross secured, then waited for him to wake up.
His whore was starting to look bad, so I dragged her body to the basement stairs, and rolled her down them. Everything is pretty much out of the living room now; just him on the cross on the wall.
He’s beginning to stir. That’s my cue.
Sunday, July 18, 1:26 a.m.-
After he woke up, I made sure he was attached firmly to the wall. Nails through each of his forearms; big, long nails that went through his skin and muscles, through the wood, and far into the wall. The same type of nails through his thighs, which wasn’t easy. I had to skirt bones to get them all the way through.
And I still have plenty of nails left. For someone as lazy as he is, he has a lot of tools and such down in the basement. Maybe he had aspirations of becoming a carpenter or something. Or maybe it was just the crap he had collected over the years.
I just realized that the phone hasn’t rung since I’ve been here. It’s kind of sad when I think about it. No one, not even his wife, cares enough to call, even just to see how he’s doing. I never stopped to think that he is universally unlikable. Although most don’t have the reasons I do to hate him so. The scars left inside me will never heal.
His eyelids are drooping. He is very pale, and the breathing through his nose is sporadic. I must keep him alive and alert for as long as I can. To prolong the agony.
Sunday, July 18, 3:42 a.m.-
He lives still.
He’s starting to visibly sag on the cross, like his throbbing muscles are trying to fall out of his skin like a potato out of a sack.
The blood has stopped flowing, leaving copious amounts staining the walls, and a few puddles soaking into the carpet.
I’ve been using vinegar under his nose to keep him awake. Every minute that he still feels is the greatest minute of my life.
I had expected to be weary by now, but my adrenaline pumps as I watch him slowly, inexorably slip deeper into my pit of vengeance.
His skin is almost translucent now, dark blue veins struggling to get blood to the heart. His muscles gasping for the oxygen that the blood brings. The life force. It fights valiantly against the unbeatable forces of time and gravity. Soon, the battle will be over.
Sunday, July 18, 4:22 a.m.-
His glassy eyes are looking at me. I would swear he was dead if not for his nostrils, straining for breath.
I think his hate is gone. He hasn’t the energy to hate anymore. He only breathes.
I wonder if he wishes he were dead yet, but won’t ask him. I wouldn’t believe anything he says anyway. But I believe he does. He must know by now that only death can release him from this hell.
Sunday, July 18, 5:04 a.m.-
He still takes breath.
Maybe he fights death to show me how strong he is. Maybe he feels he is winning a final battle against me, denying me what I want most: his death.
Or maybe he just doesn’t know any better. Maybe he hopes I’ll stick around too long, waiting for him to die, and get caught. His final vengeance.
Sunday, July 18, 6:26 a.m.-
Sunlight begins to glow through the window. His wife could be home soon. I don’t want to kill her. I want her to find the body. After the initial shock, maybe she will realize that she is free. Or maybe she loves him, and will pine away for him, crushed and alone. I do not care.
Seven minutes ago, I used a large fishing knife to cut his heart out of his chest, killing him. Then I pried open his mouth and shoved it inside. I’m covered in his blood. I will change into some of his clothes.
Sunday, July 18, 6:57 a.m.-
I’ve changed clothes.
I burned my clothes and the gloves in the bathtub.
There are no fingerprints.
There are no shoe prints in blood, or any of that other crap they look for on CSI.
I completely shaved my body hair yesterday, so I haven’t left any hairs behind.
When I get home, I will burn the clothes I’m wearing.
When I leave, I will go out the back, minimizing the chances I will be seen.
I’ll wear one of his hats, low over my face.
I’ll leave him hanging on the wall, for the world to witness.
My vengeance is complete.
Do these seem the actions of a madman?
Indeed, they do not.
The end
“A Boy and His Stepfather”
by Joseph Klare
He had never fired a gun before, had never even touched one. But now he held a 44. magnum, “The most powerful handgun in the world,” according to Dirty Harry. The steel of the trigger was cold, and the gun itself almost impossibly heavy. The barrel was aimed at a creek, about twenty feet down a ravine that fell away before him.
His stepfather, the man who had brought them to this isolated stretch of woods, stood to his right. “A nine-year old boy should know how to fire a gun,” his stepfather had said to his mother. Yes, a manly man, but what did his stepfather know about being a man?
“It’s a tight trigger,” his stepfather said to him now. The woods were eerily quiet, but the boy did not notice. His mind raced. What was he doing in these woods with this man he despised? Why was he shooting this stupid, heavy gun, into a creek like a trained monkey? Sweat rolled down his forehead on a brisk, October morning.
He imagined turning quickly to his right, harnessing all the power of the mighty weapon and firing into his stepfather’s chest. His mother would endure no more broken fingers, concussions, or worse, the humiliation that comes from being a battered woman. He imagined the bullet ripping into the older man’s chest, tearing through his voice box, silencing what the boy was sure would have been a lion’s roar of a scream. His stepfather’s body reeling backwards, blood streams pulsing into the air like Fourth of July fireworks. Thudding onto the path that paralleled the creek below. Dirty Harry couldn’t have done it better himself. Then, the boy passed out.
When he awoke, bright daylight flooded into his eyes. He instinctively shielded them with his right hand and rose to a sitting position. Birds chirped in the distance. The creek to his left trickled slowly. And five feet from where he currently sat, his stepfather lay on his back, a gaping hole occupying the space that used to be his upper chest.
Fear, panic, and dread flooded the boy’s brain like three fat people trying to shove through a small doorway at the same time. Nausea clawed at the walls of his stomach. Sweat now streamed down his forehead in buckets.
Trembling and looking around furiously, the boy slowly got to his feet. His stepfather looked even worse from this angle. A pool of blood had formed around his head and shoulders. The hole in his chest made the boy want to vomit. He also wanted to cry; not for this man who had beaten his mother regularly and viciously for the past three years, but for himself.
What would happen to him? Killing someone was the worst thing you could do. What would happen to his mother if he were taken away? She would probably be devastated. He had to do something. There were houses nearby, and people had to have heard the shot. They would be here any moment to drag the boy off to prison, and nothing good ever happened to little boys in prison. As a matter of fact, very bad things happened, things he couldn’t even imagine.
“Stop it,” he whispered to himself. If he panicked now, he was screwed. He had to buy some time.
With his eyes darting in all different directions, the boy feverishly began grabbing handfuls of dried, yellow leaves, and throwing them on his stepfather’s corpse. It was the only thing he could do at the moment. His stepfather was too heavy for him to drag off the path, even if the boy had wanted to touch him. No, he had to cover him, at least until he thought of something better.
Around the time the corpse was three-fourths of the way covered, the boy realized something important. It didn’t matter if someone had heard the shot. They would have heard it if he had shot into the creek. People shot in these woods all the time, that’s why he was here in the first place. His heart rate began to slow a little as he finished covering the body.
Now, how do you get rid of a one hundred and eighty pound carcass? Without moving it.
“Burn it,” a voice in his head told him. It was his stepfather’s voice. Yes, of course.
“Burn it,” he repeated to himself. His mind flashed to a night a few months ago. His stepfather was threatening his mother with a brutal death, as he often did. But, this night was different. He explained to her how easy it would be to get rid of her body. Burn it, then rip out the teeth so dental records couldn’t identify her. Probably got that little tid-bit from Wife Beater’s Weekly, the boy thought, and a tiny smile crossed his lips. And why shouldn’t he smile, the bastard was D-E-A-D, dead. And I killed him, he remembered. He didn’t feel like smiling anymore.
Instead he ran, down the path he and his stepfather had come up a little while before. He had to get to the car, that’s where the gas can was. Fear was his dominant emotion, but a little excitement started to creep in. He could do this!
Then he stopped. At his feet was a large, black, 44. magnum. He hadn’t even thought of the gun since he awoke next to his stepfather. And he couldn’t think about it now. He just picked it up, put it in his pocket, and continued to the car.
The boy had never been so happy to see that rusty, old Pinto. It held the keys to his freedom; a five-gallon gas can and a pack of matches with a naked lady on the front. Yet when he reached the car and looked down into the back window, the can wasn’t there.
Panic tried to grip him again. Where in the hell was the can? Only one place, he knew; in the shed, behind the trailer he and his mother shared with Mr. Dead Weight back there. The trailer that was a good twenty-minute drive from where he stood. He hated his stepfather even more now, if that was possible.
An intense rage began to take hold of him. He couldn’t give in now; he couldn’t let that bastard win. His rage intensified when he realized where the car keys were; in his stepfather’s pocket.
Even though his legs felt like putty, the boy ran back into the woods and down the path, the heavy gun smacking against his leg. His fists were balled up and he could feel the blood flowing through his forehead. He wanted to punch his dead stepfather in the face. Why not, he couldn’t punch back.
Instead, when he got back to the body, he knelt and brushed away one side of the mound of leaves. His thrust his hand into the pocket and came away with the keys and a handful of change. The keys and change went into his own pocket and he replaced the leaves.
As he ran back up the path he thought, how hard could it be to drive? He knew his feet would reach the pedals, so he had half the battle won already. Besides, he had no other choice.
When he got back to the car, his heart felt like it was going to rupture. Sweat poured down his face and into his eyes. He fumbled through the keys and found the brown one with three holes. Eyes burning, he unlocked the door, opened it, and climbed in. There he sat for a moment, collecting his himself. What a seriously fucked up situation this is, he thought. He rarely cussed in his thoughts, but if not now, when?
Suddenly he felt like someone was behind him, in the backseat. He whirled around, half-expecting his stepfather to be there, but of course, he wasn’t. This wasn’t a movie. The boy shivered and started the car.
The road that went from the edge of the woods to Route 8, the route he needed to navigate to get home, was covered with gravel. As he plodded along it, trying to get a feel for driving, he thought about what he was going to say to the police. Just burning the body and getting rid of the teeth wouldn’t be enough. They would want to know where his stepfather went. Getting away with murder sure wouldn’t be easy.
Again, he felt like crying. He didn’t plan on shooting his stepfather; he didn’t want to come out here in the first place. But, to be a manly man you had to know how to shoot a gun. Well, how was that shot, old man?
“Pretty good for a beginner,” his stepfather would say - if he wasn’t lying dead under a pile of leaves on the forest floor. Pretty good, indeed.
The Pinto came to the end of the gravel road, where it connected to Route 8. The boy looked to his left and then turned right. This was the major leagues’ of driving. A long, winding country road, Route 8 had a speed limit of 45 mph. He pressed down on the accelerator and brought his speed up to a little over forty. So far, so good. He was glad he had paid attention when his mom or step-dad drove, not only to how they did it, but also to where they were going. Driving to his house would be a breeze.
His heart leapt into his throat as he took a corner going a little too fast. He controlled it, then almost lost it again overcorrecting, then finally straightened it out. A check of the rearview mirror, no one behind him. His heart receded back into his chest and he resumed breathing.
Sweat rolled into his left eye and he fumbled to roll down the window. The breeze helped. His mind was full of thoughts and emotions. He was scared, but he had never felt so,¦alive.
Another corner, this one no problem. He took deep breaths and concentrated on the road, not noticing his knuckles turning white from gripping the steering wheel.
He did notice the flashing lights behind him, however. In his rearview mirror was a cop. He didn’t know what kind of cop, and he didn’t care. His heart was back in his throat, but this time if felt like it was going to pop out of the top of his skull. Thoughts of prison, big mean guys, and guards with big clubs raced through his mind. Could he outrun a cop? Did he have a choice?
The speedometer needle was over sixty now, which explained the flashing lights in his mirror. He gave the Pinto some more juice, and the needle crept towards seventy. He wondered how fast it would go. Past seventy-five, the car began to shake, but the boy didn’t notice. He was fixated on the huge corner coming up.
The boy slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The Pinto went airborne over a large ditch and hit a sturdy oak tree doing about seventy mph. His head slammed into the windshield and the rest of his body followed. The old Pinto didn’t have seat belts.
He was already unconscious when he hit torso-first into the tree. He was also doing about seventy.
When he awoke, he couldn’t make out anything with his eyes. He could hear the beeping of a machine nearby. Voices spoke in hushed tones in the distance. A whooshing sound came from his left. Every beat of his heart sent a dull thud through his head.
Slowly his eyes focused. A dim light shone from somewhere over his head. He was in a bed, a hospital bed. When he tried to turn his head to survey the room, a sharp pain ripped through his body and he cried out hoarsely, but audibly.
His mother rushed to his bedside, seemingly out of nowhere. “Lay still,” she said in a low voice. Her eyes were puffy and red, like she had been crying, but her broad smile told the boy she was better now.
He tried to speak, but no words came out, just a scratchy moan. His throat was terribly dry. His mother, sensing what he needed, helped him sip from a tiny pink cup. That helped a lot; the cool sensation of the water soothed his parched throat and helped clear some of the cobwebs from his mind. His mother stroked his bandaged head and told him to lie still.
A man in a white coat appeared at the foot of his bed, said something to the woman in the white coat who appeared next to him, then turned his attention to the boy. He asked to boy how he felt.
“Not so hot,” the boy managed to croak, the vibration of his voice sending another wave of pain through his body. He tried to raise his hand to feel his head, but he couldn’t; his hands were strapped to the bed.
What in the hell is going on? How did he get here? He couldn’t remember. The man in the white coat was saying something to his mother, but it didn’t register with the boy. He was in pain, strapped to a bed, his mother had been crying. This was not a good situation; of that much the boy was sure.
The man and woman in the white coats left. The boy asked his mother what had happened and she proceeded to tell him about a car accident. He had been driving the Pinto very fast and had hit a tree. A look of bewilderment froze on the boy’s face.
He was too young to drive. As a matter of fact, he had never driven before in his life. For a minute he thought his mom had gone nuts, be he was the one strapped to the bed in a great deal of pain.
“Why was I driving?" he asked before the pain in his chest became too much to bear. Tears welled up in his eyes. He was hurt and strapped to a bed and his mother was making no effort to release him.
“I think I can answer that,” a male voice said. A man in a brown suit now appeared at the foot of his bed. A shiny badge glistened next to his belt buckle. When the man finished what he had to say, the boy was convinced the world had gone totally mad. His stepfather, dead in the woods, single bullet matched gun found with you after the accident, why did you do it, kid?
The boy stared at the man, trying to compute this information, but it was no use. He didn’t remember. His stepfather, the gun, the crash, none of it.
“What?” was all he managed in response to the man with the shiny badge. The man’s response was to shake his head.
“Let him rest,” his mother hissed. With that, the badge man was gone. The boy’s mother patted his head and told him everything was going to be all right. He could see in her face she was lying.
Three months later the boy sat in his room at the Children’s Psychiatric Hospital, looking out the window. Most of his wounds had healed, although it was still uncomfortable for him to move.
He had been in a coma for 22 days after an accident he couldn’t remember. It had happened all right, his dead stepfather, the crash; the evidence was irrefutable. And yet, he didn’t remember.
The shrinks at the hospital believed him; they had lie-detector results, hypnosis results, and brain-scan results, all that crap. It was normal, they said, for someone to block out such a horrific experience.
He didn’t care about not remembering; from what people told him, he didn’t want to remember. All he cared about was the next twelve years he would spend in this hospital, cut off from the world, his mother, everything. No more hugs from the woman he would die - and evidently, kill for.
They all believed he couldn’t remember, but that didn’t make him any less dangerous. He had gunned down a man in cold blood, a despicable man for sure, but that didn’t make it right.
As the boy looked out his window, at the grass, and trees, and blue sky forbidden to him, he began to cry.
The End
