First Kill
Content
12/4-10/10 First Kill The first time my bare hands extinguished a life, I was eleven years old. In the midst of prebubescent, confusion, heat and passion, I misjudged my strength and resolve. It seemed a natural thing to posess another being, to hold power and control because I had never had my own. A gift the gods didn t feel fit to enable me with- I took into my own hands. Literally. I can t say how it began exactly just that I was tired of being picked on and kicked around. Nasty, snot nosed Brent wasn t the culprit but he was weak and possibly and most likely mildly retarded. The son of his grandfather/dad and his mother/sister, he sported a lazy left eye and constant nasal drip that even to the most tolerant person would be disturbing and vomit inducing. A quiet Thursday morning after a brutal screamfest and a few kicks to my fragile ribs, the Mother passed out in a drunken sleep. Beyond my pain, tears and shame, I felt a rage bubbling inside of me kind of like when you drink soda too fast and it fizzes in your nose. I held it in like normal and moved to a familiar, safe place; behind my dresser in the closet. I hid long past the time when I was supposed to have left for school. I must have fallen asleep cause the sounds of those scumy, retarded inbreds next door filled my ears. Again, I began to fill up with an anger so fierce that my young, undeveloped body began to shake. Visions of my tiny fists pounding revenge into the bitch flashed across my minds screen. When I finally felt strong enough to leave my hiding place, I slid open the window to better hear and see the goings on at the chicken shit farm next door. Two of the inbreds sat in the filthy dog pen chomping on stiff patties of crusted chicken droppings. Happy as stupid clams. As I climbed out the window and began to bounce on the mini trampoline that my father had long ago saved from the dump. Only a small hole in the bouncing surface and one short leg, perfect enough for us dirtball kids. Strategeically placed under the bedroom window to catch our fall from the window when we needed to escape life. The rusty squeak, squeak, squeak caught the attention of at least two of the retards because I could hear their animal like grunting back and forth like some backwoods monkey people communicating in their home language. The bravest and probably most lame, Brent, scooched on hands and knees out of the animal cage up to the chainlink fence seperating our junk yard from his wild animal farm and began to climb it. You d think even a dummy like him would learn that our side of the fence was a portal to something resembling a torture chamber after repeatedly being called names, thrown rocks at and lifted by his nappy, dirt encrusted hair up to the window and back down like a human yo-yo. Our territory was no territory for the likes of him and my siblings and I always made that clear. But, time after time, Brent, the mucous machine, grinning like the idiot he was dared to venture back to our side of the fence anytime he saw or heard us playing outside. And, sometimes even when we were still inside. He d climb to the top of that grey triangle barrier, his bare feet gripping the links with his dirty shoeless toes and call out to us like we were old friends which we certainly were NOT.
This day was different though. I was not even in the mood to torment retards. As I bounced higher and higher; squeak, squeak, squeak, my insides began to feel like jello; not quite solid. Watching Brent come closer, my heart began to beat really fast like a swarm of bees in spring. I locked eyes with that kid and something in me broke snapped. I smiled real big and sweet all the while sweat began to pour from my body like rain from a cloud, all the while a storm was b rewing inside me. When Brent reached the barrier seperating us he stupidly asked what I was doing, which to any normal human being would be obvious. With that goofy, frozen grin on my face beginning to set as if in plaster, I answered him and asked if he d like a try on the trampoline. Of course, he was thrilled because it was a rare occasion for us to invite him or his fucked up siblings to play unless it was to trick them somehow or to inflict some kind of pain. My mind was racing with the possibilities now that the creature was in my space, in my yard and in my reach. I was going to inflict some pain alright I just wasn t sure how yet. AS we traded places, he on the trampoline and me on the junk pile, Brent began to jump and somewhere inside of me a distorted, gurrgly giggle began to rise and form in my throat. I tried to capture it but my body was trembling so badly that I could barely breathe in and out. So, I laughed loud like lava exploding and it startled the goon and as he came down on the trampoline his left foot slipped right through the hole in the surface and he started to fall backwards toward the debri pile lining the fence in the corner of our property. As he started to fall and right here I have only a faint recolection of what I was thinking except that the pure hatred and disgust flowing in my veins for that loser Brent, the bitch mother and myself, had to escape. I reached out and grabbed the crusty, stained shirt covering his malnourished and flimsy carcass and thrust him backward onto the pile. I put my small body over his domination a raw and invigorating feeling washing over me. To both our surprise, I placed one knee on his groin and one knee on his abdomen securing him in place. As I leaned in closer the putrid, delicious rage flowing inside of me began to leak out in the form of grit teeth not even fully formed, wild even crazy eyes and my tiny hands around its neck. I don t know if it was his shock or the fact that he was an inbred retard-but the thing never even struggled. He just lay there upon discarded 2 by 4 s and old plywood, carparts and other random items left to rot in the corner of our trailer park yard. Looking up into my eyes like I was God. Which at that point I was. I could feel its heart beating beneath my anaconda fingers and the throbbing which slowed every second just fueled my fire. I began to squeeze like a vice and scream like the fires of hell were torching my lily flesh. At some point I must have realeased my grip on it s neck and and began to tear feverishly with my hello kitty painted fingernails at it s skin, arms, face, torso; crimson streaks across dirt colored skin and bloodshot eyes staring up at me lifelessly as I was lifted up into the sky above him above myself even. All the while screeming like a banshee. The next thing I remember is hearing sirens in the background of the blood flowing through my ears and hysterical laughing. It was a demented and angry laugh-holding no joy or happiness and I felt confused.
Alone and confused. Laughing is supposed to show happiness and joyfullness, not anger and pain and desperation. The swarm of faces in front of and seemingly everywhere around me blended into one- My own. It was as if I were looking into a mirror. But it was the voices, the constant questioning and varying tones that I remember most. Restrained to a broken metal chair in the torture chamber I lived in by an old leather belt usually saved for our ass whoopins, and a bathrobe tie I began to see more clearly the scene around me. Police officers, firemen, the bitch drunk, and other random people some familiar some unfamiliar, surrounded me. I tried to speak but my face and lips seemed frozen in time and tight like spandex, teeth bared in a grimace like an angry dog. I sat slack in the chair and letting my eyes roll back into my head my only escape for what is going on and what happened earlier, I fainted. The scene has been recounted to me many, many times but it is still only bits and pieces that I retain. I stole something that didn t belong to me Brent s life. I gave myself a gift that I never thought I d get freedom from the life I had been thrust into. As I sit in this nearly bare concrete room decorated only by pictures of my own childlke imagination and invention, dressed in standard issue sky blue jammies, I begin to giggle. The endless time here has not changed a thing. I am still eleven years old although my real age is 26. An innocence long gone and a life never lived and not missed. The drawings on the wall scratched in blue crayon tell a sort of story. A story of a young girl broken and a little boy dead. Most likely, I will forever be imprisoned in this institution, separate from everyone else in existance, kind of like a goldfish in a bowl. At least a goldfish can see the outside world, can watch things and people change. I see only myself and that whitetrash, inbred never changing-never growing-never living-never speaking. Like I said, the first time I extinguished a life with my bare hands I was eleven years old. Fifteen years later, and my tiny undeveloped mind dreams every night of the that day over and over and over. After all, that s what happens when you re crazy right?
This day was different though. I was not even in the mood to torment retards. As I bounced higher and higher; squeak, squeak, squeak, my insides began to feel like jello; not quite solid. Watching Brent come closer, my heart began to beat really fast like a swarm of bees in spring. I locked eyes with that kid and something in me broke snapped. I smiled real big and sweet all the while sweat began to pour from my body like rain from a cloud, all the while a storm was b rewing inside me. When Brent reached the barrier seperating us he stupidly asked what I was doing, which to any normal human being would be obvious. With that goofy, frozen grin on my face beginning to set as if in plaster, I answered him and asked if he d like a try on the trampoline. Of course, he was thrilled because it was a rare occasion for us to invite him or his fucked up siblings to play unless it was to trick them somehow or to inflict some kind of pain. My mind was racing with the possibilities now that the creature was in my space, in my yard and in my reach. I was going to inflict some pain alright I just wasn t sure how yet. AS we traded places, he on the trampoline and me on the junk pile, Brent began to jump and somewhere inside of me a distorted, gurrgly giggle began to rise and form in my throat. I tried to capture it but my body was trembling so badly that I could barely breathe in and out. So, I laughed loud like lava exploding and it startled the goon and as he came down on the trampoline his left foot slipped right through the hole in the surface and he started to fall backwards toward the debri pile lining the fence in the corner of our property. As he started to fall and right here I have only a faint recolection of what I was thinking except that the pure hatred and disgust flowing in my veins for that loser Brent, the bitch mother and myself, had to escape. I reached out and grabbed the crusty, stained shirt covering his malnourished and flimsy carcass and thrust him backward onto the pile. I put my small body over his domination a raw and invigorating feeling washing over me. To both our surprise, I placed one knee on his groin and one knee on his abdomen securing him in place. As I leaned in closer the putrid, delicious rage flowing inside of me began to leak out in the form of grit teeth not even fully formed, wild even crazy eyes and my tiny hands around its neck. I don t know if it was his shock or the fact that he was an inbred retard-but the thing never even struggled. He just lay there upon discarded 2 by 4 s and old plywood, carparts and other random items left to rot in the corner of our trailer park yard. Looking up into my eyes like I was God. Which at that point I was. I could feel its heart beating beneath my anaconda fingers and the throbbing which slowed every second just fueled my fire. I began to squeeze like a vice and scream like the fires of hell were torching my lily flesh. At some point I must have realeased my grip on it s neck and and began to tear feverishly with my hello kitty painted fingernails at it s skin, arms, face, torso; crimson streaks across dirt colored skin and bloodshot eyes staring up at me lifelessly as I was lifted up into the sky above him above myself even. All the while screeming like a banshee. The next thing I remember is hearing sirens in the background of the blood flowing through my ears and hysterical laughing. It was a demented and angry laugh-holding no joy or happiness and I felt confused.
Alone and confused. Laughing is supposed to show happiness and joyfullness, not anger and pain and desperation. The swarm of faces in front of and seemingly everywhere around me blended into one- My own. It was as if I were looking into a mirror. But it was the voices, the constant questioning and varying tones that I remember most. Restrained to a broken metal chair in the torture chamber I lived in by an old leather belt usually saved for our ass whoopins, and a bathrobe tie I began to see more clearly the scene around me. Police officers, firemen, the bitch drunk, and other random people some familiar some unfamiliar, surrounded me. I tried to speak but my face and lips seemed frozen in time and tight like spandex, teeth bared in a grimace like an angry dog. I sat slack in the chair and letting my eyes roll back into my head my only escape for what is going on and what happened earlier, I fainted. The scene has been recounted to me many, many times but it is still only bits and pieces that I retain. I stole something that didn t belong to me Brent s life. I gave myself a gift that I never thought I d get freedom from the life I had been thrust into. As I sit in this nearly bare concrete room decorated only by pictures of my own childlke imagination and invention, dressed in standard issue sky blue jammies, I begin to giggle. The endless time here has not changed a thing. I am still eleven years old although my real age is 26. An innocence long gone and a life never lived and not missed. The drawings on the wall scratched in blue crayon tell a sort of story. A story of a young girl broken and a little boy dead. Most likely, I will forever be imprisoned in this institution, separate from everyone else in existance, kind of like a goldfish in a bowl. At least a goldfish can see the outside world, can watch things and people change. I see only myself and that whitetrash, inbred never changing-never growing-never living-never speaking. Like I said, the first time I extinguished a life with my bare hands I was eleven years old. Fifteen years later, and my tiny undeveloped mind dreams every night of the that day over and over and over. After all, that s what happens when you re crazy right?
