Suffer the Children

Chapter 3


September 11th


Have you ever held your breath just to know, just to feel what it would be like to die, to die without that last gulp of air, the sweetest nectar of life? Have you ever felt the pain in your chest from the lack of oxygen, the way your thoughts began to slow and sounds become a dull roar? It’s so hard to imagine life without that highly overlooked intake of breath refreshing your delicate lungs, and we take it all for granted.
But there was a time, a moment, the most beautiful and constructive point of our creation, the nine-month introduction to life as we know it. So alive were we as the miracle of conception formed our brains, our spine, our gender, our fingers and toes, and our temporarily ineffectual lungs.
All this time of growing and forming and there’s no memory of it. We twitched if the sound was too loud. We opened our eyes to darkness. Such lively little creatures, or demons rather, but our mouth never gasped for air. Our fears, there was none, only life. Perhaps beyond breath there is life, or an exacerbated sense of being… or not being. Perfect peace as it must be.
I’m so envious of death’s beauty, so turned on by its unsurpassed perfection of tearing us down to our cynical little shell of bones. The paleness of the body, sometimes a tint of black seems to flush over ones face until… well, what I like to call “real death” sets in.
The eyes lose their sparkle of life as the dilated pupils dry and the eye itself begins to shrink and whither. Of course time aids the process, but no matter how warm the climate death is so cold. When the black veil passes over the peaceful shell of our bodies, and the deathly gray-blue shadows the form, you can see and feel the ice.
The hands of death are quite chilling, and with advanced states of rigor mortis death seems to tighten its grip, as if the soul is gripping life as hard as it can, fighting to come back, perhaps, a dying soul in denial. Finally death crushes away the skin until its bruised and black, until the hair of the scalp has nothing left to cling to, and the slightest wind will blow it away, never to be discovered again. In the end, as the last bits and pieces of meat are nibbled away by birds and beasts all that lies is a clutter of small white bones. It’s as though death had smashed the body into its smallest form. And all it takes is just nine little months.
A curiosity, thick and ominous casts even more shadows upon the mystery of how one could fall into the trap I enjoy setting. There must be fate for this hot piece of ass suffered a harsh one. When I saw her I knew she was the one. The feeling was quiet similar to that of meeting your first love.
At first I thought it must be true that there can only be one true love, because the mystifying thought that you of millions of people found each other at all must have been fate. However, I am aware that you can love many things, and love comes in too many forms to keep up.
Believe it or not, finding your newest victim is precisely the same feeling you feel when you look into the eyes of the girl you want to be with – to really be with, the until-death-do-us-part kind of girl. That feeling in your stomach, that tightening in your chest is a feeling one and the same as looking into the tear filled eyes of a beautiful frightened young girl, being ever so kind to spare herself pain… THAT is the feeling I get, butterflies and all
And when I hear their desperate sweet voices begging gently, “you don’t have to kill me. I’ll never tell. I haven’t seen your face. I have a son, a daughter. You can have all my money, jewelry, etc…” When I hear that, the passion, the knowledge of knowing she relies solely on me, it brings me back to the thought, we simply spiral out. No one is exempt from pain, not even me. I’ve seen death. What’s to fear? What’s to pity? I am death.
I saw her from a distance, a small frightened animal wondering without direction down the street. Perhaps she was sulking from a lover’s quarrel, and decided to go for a walk to cool off, or maybe she was walking away from him forever. Perhaps it was a jealous heart, or the ultimate betrayal that led her small feet down the lonely stretch of road.
The first time I passed, her arms were crossed, and she looked down at the sidewalk beneath her. It was a cool night, not especially cold, but cold enough that she wore a jacket wrapped around her petite form, trying to downright smother herself in the warmth of it, or hide her small body from my hungry eyes.
Some artists may have pitied her, drawing up elaborate assumptions of her obvious innocence, but not me. The innocence was there for sure. She was just another silly little girl, selfish and spoiled, and risking her life by walking alone at such an hour.
If I were to guess, she probably had no real reason to be walking anywhere at that hour. It was her adolescent vulnerability that drew me in. I drove passed her in the dark, and I saw the look, her pretty face splashed with light that streamed from my headlights, such unease. She had a good reason to be uneasy, because I was aware that later I would pinpoint her weaknesses, flaws, and fronts as she would lay a bound lump of helplessness beneath me, squirming in a pathetic attempt to fight while I took the things I wanted most; her body, her mind, and complete control over her.
It was a sort of “feeling” that drew me to my puppets, like a moth to a flame, a shark to its wounded meal, but for me it was more than scent or sight, but rather a spiritual connection. And I felt quite spiritual indeed. We were one when I shoved my cock so far up her ass that I expected it to come out of her mouth. Yeah, we were one…
In my past I’d blown off many opportunities to take what I wanted from anyone I wanted simply because of the lack of thrill. What can I say? I like competition. The snooty ones are my favorite. The ones who think they’re too good for just anyone, so stuck up and bitchy that they made me sick to my stomach. I wanted to see them suffer, and become powerless. I wanted to hear them begging and pleading for their life. I wanted them to be without choice.
I despise settling for killing animals and watching those lame bondage and torture flicks. I must have read every true crime book ever written. To even try to dilute my needs that way is such a pity. The downside? I knew that when I crossed that line, when I could not hold back the urge to experiment with their deaths, to make them unique and a fine work of art then I could not go back to any resemblance of normalcy. I dreaded that day, but something forced me to beckon it all at once. Fear of losing that control was my biggest fear. But something is there forcing it to become necessary, and making fear evolve to something not so mundane as such. There’s no guilt, no regret, just more aching and going through a mental and emotional withdrawal from the thrill of it.
It’s overwhelming and people always say, ‘How could someone kill another human being?”… How could you not want to after your hands have taken away someone’s life? Life; the miracle, life; the one and only. I am a God. Maybe not yours, but someone’s. This pretty girl I took… she told me I was God. She was too frightened to lie.
I enjoy building traps for my victims… perhaps I should call it webs. Like a spider, I draw them in with my pleasant and harmless beauty, cunning, and a false sense of trustworthiness. And the one that lands into my trap… she’s the one I’ll have. Fate has control over that. I only have control over her once she can’t get away from my web. I am a God. We are all Gods. Some are too fucking stupid to realize.
I sit and imagine how frail and weak we are. None of it rests on how physically strong we are. It’s how well we use our mind that determines who’s higher in the food chain. Take, for instance, the lion, a fierce killer, fighting tooth and nail against a weaponless man. Of course the man’s fucked. But now the lion attempts to fight tooth and nail against a man who promptly blows his brains out of his skull with a S.K.S. assault riffle. And it’s all because of someone’s mind having the ability to conjure up the idea of weapons, killing not only by skill, but by our fiercest weapon... our minds. Hands did not create the atom bomb. An ingenious mind did.
I felt like a predator. I felt the need to stalk my prey, my helpless butterfly. Twisting and squirming and trying to free her self until the wings began to tear. Once you tear their fragile wings, once you break them, they can never get away. They’re yours forever. I will control every decision she makes for the rest of her life even if I let her go.
There are so many ways to control someone, so many ways to emotionally bind someone. I will be her cause and effect. I will be her nightmare. Even if I was dead, and she remained, I would forever haunt her helpless mind, raping and tormenting her like a macabre carousel, over and over… and over… I can’t imagine, and yet… I can.
When it was all said and done, she was entirely too weak, too exhausted in every way to even mutter a plea. Too exhausted to whimper and beg when I walked away and left her there bloody, breathing, but definitely nowhere near alive. Even so, she was dead the moment I saw her, even more so, the moment I tied her tiny wrists, and cut away her clothes. It didn’t matter if she lived to be 100, it would last forever.
And if I hear that damned song one more time… Sorry, I guess you could say I’m not in the best of moods today. There, I turned off the radio. Best cure for annoying music, right?
I should be happy. I should be sitting here jerking off to the memory of it all. Why the fuck hasn’t it been on the news? At least in a newspaper? I haven’t heard a word about it. And Allyson thinks I cheated on her… if only she knew. It’s beginning to make me feel sick. The headache I have gets worse each time she asks me where I was last night. She doesn’t really have to ask. Her eyes ask the question for her. But torturing some bitch, now that’s not considered cheating, is it?
She underestimates me. Perhaps that’s what I love and hate about her. Sitting here in a fucking hole in the wall apartment with a baby and my girlfriend who are both equally argumentative, I’m finding myself to be rather apathetic today. I’ve barely had a chance to even consider regret. Or maybe I just don’t regret it.
If I could do it over, shove her pretty face down in the dirt and fuck the shit out of her, I would. But I would do it all different… better.

Kody closed the pen in the notebook, and shoved them both into the fire-safe, closing them safely within. He always hid his writings and those nagging sexual urges ever since he was a teenager. They seemed to get him into nothing but trouble.
It was strange how honesty somehow seemed to leak from the pen to the paper, and honesty wasn’t always a good thing. Writing was just something that made him feel almost indestructible. By writing, he put into detail his darkest and most demented desires long before they ever became sound reality, and long before he’d lost the rationality to determine what constitutes wrong.
By no means did this mean he didn’t know the difference between right and wrong. He knew. He simply chose not to care, and not to bother to feel guilt from doing wrong. His father influenced his guiltlessness, but Kody was the reason his fantasy was no longer fantasy, but a strange and alienating reality. Doing wrong did not matter to him, and therefore it did not matter, period. His narcissism kept him blind to the wants and needs of others. He was all that mattered in that small enclosed literary world that fed him further into the monster he’d become.
However, Kody chose to explore his own darkness further, to see how far he could take it, to tempt himself into being caught or at least known by the world. Narcissism was a deadly form of evil, and almost always a self-defeating way to live.
Kody lifted the small safe from the dresser onto the floor and slid it beneath the bed with the tip of his shoe. Eventually it would be read, he reminded himself. After all, that’s what he wrote it for. Memoirs that he knew people would want to read one day, to learn more about people like him. He was just as fascinated with his own notions as any criminal profiler would be.
Kody could hear Allyson’s soft voice drifting from the kitchen into the bedroom. She was talking to Julian, in a soft tone that only a mother would use.
Kody tugged open the door and just across the hall was the small but tidy living room. A sofa, a TV and a chair was about the only décor in the house. Julian had quite a habit destroying anything within arms length.
Kody wanted to smile just at the sight of her. How could one person be so perfect, he wondered? How many times had he painted her portrait upon canvas in swirls of cream colors opening up a vision of her of her pale skin, and perfecting the shine in her beautiful black hair?
Allyson loved the pictures but often questioned why they all had to be nude paintings and one particular piece of art caught her curiosity; a painting of herself nude, lying spread eagle, knees bent slightly upon a lovely Victorian style four-poster bed with dark swirls of black and red filling the spaces behind her.
That, however, wasn’t the odd part. He’d forced her to lay there an entire four hours, a rope wedged beneath her teeth as a gag. Then he tied her hands, rather tightly to the headboard. But the most unusual part of the art work was how he’d later dabbed a trickle of crimson red from the corner of her mouth, and the fantastic detail he loved to achieve when he painted the female anatomy was marred with drops of red pouring from between her legs into a dark puddle beneath her, where lay a blood-stained dagger upon the white sheets.
Kody was a fantastic artist, displaying some of his less vulgar work in multiple art shows around the state. People would pay good money for a nice piece of art. He even had one painting on the front of a modern art magazine. It didn’t pay but three hundred and fifty dollars, but money was money, and it was more than a lot of artists ever accomplished before their death.
Allyson was right, however. She was a piece of art. To Kody she was beauty in all its perfection. He’d taken her in, every part of her, noticing her perfect soft jaw line and beautiful dark hair, and often he’d envision pulling it, jerking back her head furiously and fucking her hard in her tight little ass.
It took all of his strength to be gentle, and he knew it was fading with his sanity. Perhaps, he was envious of her beauty and happiness, although her happiness was fading as quickly as his sanity. Kody was miserable and misery loved company.
Kody pretended not to see the way the light in her green eyes dimmed by his presence as he stepped into the living room.
Her pretty pale face was still red, baring the print of his hand, and her eyes were red from crying. Gently, she lifted the curly haired child down until his feet touched the floor, and pretended to be preoccupied by the television show.
“I’m going to see Trent,” Kody burst through the silence.
For a moment he couldn’t even believe he’d find himself ever saying that again. Six months had passed since he even considered going to see his oldest brother.
Truth was, he was afraid to see him. At first it all felt like nothing more than a resemblance of hurt. He was hurt that his brother had to go away to such a permanent place. Hurt that he had nothing left of a family except that beautiful child gnawing contentedly on the blue teething ring clinched tightly in his tiny fist. Finally, after the hurt subsided, inevitably there was rage.
Trent and Kody only had each other after the untimely death of their mother. The birth of Kody, born eight weeks too soon, gave way to her miserable health thereafter. The conditions of her weakened heart alone would have finished her even if his father hadn’t abused the woman beyond anything a woman should have to experience.
At the time of Kody’s Mother’s demise she was growing more and more frail, mentally and physically so. Kody remembered wishing he looked more like his mother rather than being the exact replica of his father. Assuming that at least if he looked like his mother, he wouldn’t have to hate the prominent features of the face that stared back each time he looked into a mirror.
Even so, Kody’s soft, almost feminine, face was undeniably beautiful. From a distance he always appeared flawless. His eyes, beautiful and dark were in perfect symmetry, almost a work of art.
One would have sworn he was wearing make-up to augment those dark, brooding eyes. He always had the power to fool people with his eyes and the way he worked with his slightly arched eyebrows to accentuate his emotion. It reminded Allyson of a puppy, a very spoiled puppy. It was all an art to him. His nose was straight with a slight slope and it, too, was exquisite.
No one would ever imagine that in his life time it had been broken three times. Of course, the surgery helped put everything back together. It wasn’t cosmetic. In fact, it was simply because his father decided he would punch his son in the face for something so petty that Kody couldn’t remember it then if he tried. His septum had been crushed, and breathing had become a bit of a complication, so surgery had become necessary.
Kody’s expressionism didn’t end with his eyes. His lips were curved at the corners into a permanent smile. At times it could be gentle and warm, but behind a mask so deeply concentrative and reflective, a fuddled, very mischievous child hid.
Up close however, one could see faint scars slightly defacing his beauty. Even closer you could just faintly see the seething anger bubbling in a pool of nearly black, brown eyes. And the smile that was etched across his face became menacing and sly. Not many would notice until it was too late, blinded by his soft features, gentle voice and certain charm.
Julian, his son, was everything to Kody that mattered. He was the only thing he wouldn’t dare raise his voice to. The only cause of any sense of conviction he may have had. For the most part Julian was a calm child, who rarely cried, at least until now. He had been teething for the past few months, and the fevers and fussiness came along with it.
Kody, being somewhat impatient, was surprisingly gentle and understanding with the child. He vowed to be something his father never was. A real Dad. But so far he had failed miserably. He admitted he threw his son off on his girlfriend more than he should, and that drugs were slowly creeping up to the top of his list of priorities.
Allyson sat staring down at her hands, always shying away from him, always afraid, yet desperately attached. She hadn’t responded to Kody’s announcement. Instead, she appeared to ignore him.
“Did you hear me?” he asked.
Several moments passed before she finally answered.
“Yes. Why would you do that?” she questioned softly, “It will only upset you.”
“He’s my brother. I haven’t seen him in a while. I’ve got to get the hell out of this place. I can make it by three if I leave now. Are you even listening to me? Stop watching TV.”
“What do I do wrong?” she rather mumbled the question. Her eyes were sparkling with tears, but none fell.
Even though he was somewhat horrible at maintaining relationships, he regretted striking Allyson. It wasn’t really hard, but ever since their argument, he couldn’t stop seeing his father jumping from the table where the family of four sat. Vincent beat his mother brutally for interrupting him. Kody remembered feeling frightened, remembered being silent, remembered wishing his father would stop hurting her. But the only difference was that he regretted striking Allyson because the stress it caused him, and he would have to suffer through her whining for days. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t feel at times, and then other times the thought of her hurting made him suffer so emotionally he’d wish he was dead.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry, Ally. I think I’m going crazy.” Kody’s voice was calm, “We both know something fucked up is going on in my head.” He paused, “This shit – it’s getting to me. I have problems. I’m not just fucking with you. Something is wrong with me.”
“I know… It’s the drugs, Kody,” Allyson returned softly, “Everything will be okay. You’ll feel better and…”
“No, I won’t. It’s just getting worse. Every time I start thinking I’m okay I suddenly start thinking about what he did to me. I almost thought it was normal to live that way. I can’t,” Kody paused, trying to obtain his hold on his emotions, “I can’t even talk about it, but all I do is think about it. I’m not even sure you realize what I’ve really been through.”
“Yes. I do. I do, Kody. You were hurt, and I understand completely. But you can’t let that destroy us – your family. I mean, you said they just came back? How do you know they’re real memories?” Allyson asked, helping Julian, who had fallen flat on his diaper clad bottom.
There was never a moment that Allyson could remember when Kody simply acted patient with her. Patience was merely something that was unattainable with him. Just as predicted, he sighed impatiently.
“No, they didn’t just come back. I said that it’s really starting to get to me. Some things I don’t remember, but sometimes I think when I want to remember I do. And it’s real. I know. I was thirteen. No one forgets what happened then. Normal people don’t get flashbacks and nightmares about…” He didn’t finish, but began a new sentence. “I’m not making this up. I may be somewhat fucked up, but I’m not making this up. If you don’t believe me then fuck you! I have no one else to talk to about this.” He paused, “And now I’ve just abandoned Trent over things that weren’t his fault. You have no idea how far this goes. The day my mom died I remember sitting in the hallway, shaking and – and just staring. But everything before that moment is just black. It was like I’d lost consciousness. Something happened the day she died, something that I wanted to forget. If the doctors are right, if I blacked things out when I was a kid, then I was blacking something out that day, right? I mean, I remember thinking, why has no one come for mom’s body. So I thought maybe it hadn’t been so long, but the bruises... It takes a while for the blood to settle.”
“Honey, what are you talking about? Are you okay?”
“What? Yes! I’m fine. My Dad’s just a fucking murderer. I think he did in Mom. He was sick of getting caught cheating. He knew she found out what he was doing to us. See? That’s motive, right there.”
Allyson stared for a moment, rather dumbfounded. Kody rarely got so personal about himself. “Why are you telling me this?” She was almost afraid to ask the question.
A pause of silence gripped the room. Even baby Julian stayed silent. The teething ring remained glued to his mouth.
“I think something else happened. Trent never wanted to talk about it. Why? I should be able to know, right? It was my mother. Still Trent would never say a word about that day. Nothing. Like the day never fuckin’ happened… He didn’t black things out, and he was there. He knows. He could say something, maybe even get Dad put away, and maybe he could use that to help him get out of there one day. Or maybe he knows just as well as I that the bitch needed to be put out of her misery.”
“Is that really what you want? Vengeance against your Dad? I mean, the typical loving son doesn’t call his mother a bitch, and say she deserved to die.”
“I didn’t say she deserved to die.” Kody responded calmly, “I was only saying that she’s probably better off that way.”
“You believe that, and you’re still concerned? You won’t be happy about it either way, Kody. I know you. You’d have mixed emotions. Half the time you’ll feel bad about it. You know you will. You’ll have to testify too, in front of people. You won’t even talk to me about it. How would you tell a dozen strangers about what he did to you?”
“So he just gets away with it then? With everything he did to us?”
There was a hint in his tone that threatened to become aggressive. Aggressive enough to make Allyson look down at her small hands.
“Maybe it was nothing… Maybe your mother was just tired of life.”
Kody’s hand swept down, catching the key ring that entrapped a clutter of keys.
“Maybe… Anyway, I love you guys. I’ll be back by six.”