Suffer the Children

Chapter 4


September. 23rd,

Writing, I fear, has been not one of my top priorities for the past several weeks. He doesn’t want to see me. Ah, that’s a sad thought – to know my own brother doesn’t want to see me. I didn’t even get a chance to explain or a chance to see him, to see if he’s changed. Obviously, he’s made a few changes since I saw him last. I’m so selfish, and it’s completely my fault that he hates me. I would hate me too… I do hate me.
If that’s the way it must be then that’s the way it shall be. Trent will never get a chance to know that I did want to see him, I just couldn’t bring myself to do that. He was the one who told me to lie on the witness stand. I would have told the truth in a second. On second thought, if things had gone my way, Stacy would have been dumped in an alley with the needle in her arm. It was Trent’s fault for turning himself in for something I did. In this instance his lies certainly didn’t pay off. Now he’ll sit behind prison bars for ten years or more. I can’t face him knowing how he did that for me, gave up his entire life so that I could become something one day and now look at me. It’s eating me alive.
Now that I think about it, it just pisses me off for being so stupid and letting him go down. I’m so fucking selfish.
“If I let you go down for this, I’ll hate you for the rest of my life. You’re so smart. I don’t have a life. The whole thing was an accident - I know you didn’t mean it. You knew nothing about mainlining. I should’ve never bought the stuff and got you involved. It’s the right thing for me to do.”
He told me all this before he turned himself in.
The right thing? What is the right thing? And who’s the person that made it officially right? We’re animals. We survive, and if we fail, we die, just like wolves, just like elk, just like ants. And good fucking riddance too. If the world was just and fair there would be no worrying about doing the “right thing”. All there would be is survival, survival of the strong, death for the weak; death for the mentally incompetent, death for those who find their lives so wonderfully blissful that they must follow man-made rules to fit in, and spit on the rest of us who refuse to be the pink in their rainbow. Death for those who think the world is full of goodness, death to ignorance.
I can barely imagine being so simple, not realizing that its every man for himself, and where you fall is where you lay. Why must society be so irrational? If they could see through my eyes, see through the eyes of a survivor, and perhaps into the eyes of a dying breed; my weaklings, my loves for a day, then perhaps I could change the world with my cock.
Jesus Christ, I felt so fucking sick and at the same time so overwhelmingly aroused by it. Just to know I got away with it brings a smile to my face. It was idiotic to think I could never feel something that widens my eyes in spectacle just like a child. Maybe I didn’t feel innocent, but I felt whole – like it was what I was made to be.
I explored her inside and out, doing what I wanted to feel what I wanted. I am just an animal, and she, so frail that I’d broken her mind long before I’d broken her brittle bones, was just my toy – a very beautiful one; long dark hair, eyes that smiled when she did, and a small girlish body that was quite easy to control from beginning to end. Just remembering her moans, the writhing of her pain-ridden body makes me wanna…
Okay its 1:30 now, everyone’s asleep but I’m a little fucked up. Sorry about the pause. Writing so graphically made me quite aroused, and Allyson’s body is here for the taking. I can tell the cocaine’s been laced with something. My nose is burning like a motherfucker. I still have over half an eight ball left, not to mention a bottle of vodka within arms reach.
Vodka is my choice of alcohol. I don’t do the bourbon or scotch too much. I tend to get a little hostile. It really runs in the family I suppose. My father was Italian, originally raised in Bronx, New York. No, he wasn’t in the mafia or any of that crap and left his Italian roots behind him, with no culture to offer us except for the selfish American way, but he had the worst temper you could imagine.
He and my real mother met and soon after, to escape the “harsh realities of the Bronx”, and my mother’s complaints about raising us there in the middle of all the constant drug and street wars, when Mom was pregnant (with me) they moved here. She was so fucking crazy.
I’ve heard stories of her insanity. For two years after she gave birth to me she remained deathly ill, physically and mentally so. Another bout with Post-partum depression that only spiraled downward after several years is what finally did her in, and that’s when she supposedly took her own life. Sleeping pills and a half empty bottle of wine stopped her heart and crazy mind for good. I suppose anything mental that’s fucked up about me I can offer my dead mother all my gratitude for that.
Most of my memories of her are her crazy ranting. Maybe that’s why Dad got so angry at her. I think she drove him the way he was, that heartless fuck. I almost think I blame her for it all. She was religious – a fucking fanatic catholic bitch. And all that nonsense she went on and on about, some curse on the town and how I was cursed in her womb – and how it was me that made her sick for those two years - It was all a bunch of horse shit. Until her pathetic dying day she said that I would be the death of her. What an irony that it must have been my father.
I found her. Lying on her bed like what it must have looked like when Marilyn Monroe was found. She was naked, face down and I turned her over. The blood had already settled and began to coagulate and could be seen on the surface of her face, and I swore it was bruises and that my father had killed her. But Vincent was cleared, and I was assured that the bruises weren’t bruises, but coagulation, and that it was normal for a corpse who’s been dead for several hours. But it was those several hours I couldn’t remember.
I always had this mental image or perhaps it was a vision of Vincent holding her down and forcing her to swallow the pills, grabbing her jaw, creating those purple marks. They couldn’t convince me otherwise.
I once decided she was crazy but harmless, but I’ve completely changed my mind. Her insanity hurt a lot of people. Sometimes I think even Dad thought I was a curse. I guess it’s a possibility.
Something’s wrong with me. Is it normal to love the pain of others? Is it normal to be sexually aroused by death, by blood? I suppose it doesn’t matter what the answer is. The fact is; I am, always have been. From the time I was thirteen, and hanged the neighbor’s daughter by her wrists in the woods. Maybe it doesn’t count. I didn’t really hurt her, or have sex with her. Curiosity is what made me pull down her pants and experiment with her. But that’s as far as I took it. My souvenir was her blue flowered panties which I kept between my mattresses. I often wonder if she ever said a word about it. I may never know.
Sometimes I’d lay awake in bed thinking about what I should have done. I would pull out the soft, flowered material, reminisce and smell the fading scent of her, then jerk off. Although, I couldn’t help what I was attracted to, I knew that it was something that must be kept quiet. It all goes back to the man-made rules. Or the biblical words; “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” and so forth. So that’s precisely what I did. Let’s face it I wasn’t the most sheltered child in the world. Memories of sexual abuse when I was a child seem to weave a layer of hatred and hostility through my already fucked up mind.
Damn, my father didn’t care how bad he hurt me. It didn’t matter as long as he got his rocks off. “You’ll get over it,” he’d say to make me feel better. “It happened to me and I’m not so bad.” How comical!
Often when he was really drunk after he had moaned and grunted and sweat all over me, he’d break down and apologize. He really didn’t care. I’m sure he enjoyed it just as much as I enjoy fucking girls until they bleed. Some times he made sure I knew that he was only doing it because Mom or one of his women wasn’t giving him what he wanted.
I never told a soul about the girl in the woods, but at one point I caught myself being a bit too sloppy when Carrie, a different girl who lived in my neighborhood ran her mouth about me. She was a cunt from the moment I met her. In love with my big brother, and she couldn’t have been anymore than 13. Trent was almost eighteen… or was it nineteen? If anything she was probably trying to get him into trouble. I guess I should have stayed away from her.
How long has that been? Jesus, almost eight years ago... Too bad the statute of limitations has proceeded beyond six years. But I never fucked her, as much as she wants to claim I did. I tried. I won’t lie about that. She was too tight. I was too big – not that being well endowed should earn me sympathy, but it hurt me as much as it hurt her, so I stopped trying. I definitely have no complaints about my size. So she gave me head. With a bit of coercion I admit, but I never physically forced any of it upon her.
Shit, I was just a kid too. Fourteen or fifteen, I can’t really remember exactly. And why in the hell she never told anyone besides my brother I’ll never know. I guess I’m just a lucky guy.
Trent beat the hell out of me though. That’s when the realization of how wrong what I was doing actually hit me. It wasn’t when my father beat me with his fist until I was unconscious. Hell, I expected it from him, but not Trent. Really, that hurt a lot worse than anything Dad could do. I miss my brother so much. The closest friend I’ve ever had in my life was Trent.
Desperately ashamed of what I did and how wrong Trent told me it was I tried as hard as I could to change, to be normal. The comment he made I’ll never forget.
“I guess you want to be just like him, huh? You want to be a fucking rapist? You should know how that feels.”
I remember exactly the way his eyes blazed with anger towards me... Truthfully, I never expected him to act that way about it. I figured he’d take up for me, the way he always had. Brothers through thick and thin – But something about hurting that girl had royally pissed him off.
When my father hurt me it seemed normal to him. Perhaps that’s why this feels so normal to me.

It took Kody a few minutes to realize he was drawing boxes, one after another upon the course lined paper. His hands were a bit unsteady, but by some means each box looked well proportioned.
Drugs, they were his every waking thought, but somehow drugs invoked deeper thoughts. Thoughts that weren’t quite as cloudy as they once had been. The most unnerving thing was that he wasn’t sure if he was simply going insane.
Perhaps, the boxes he’d scribbled upon the pages reflected his state of mind. Indeed he was boxed in. Reality was no longer real. It could only be explained as a detached feeling, as though life were nothing more than a video game. All the players meant nothing, and though he could control them, child-like curiosity forced him to not only want to control them, but know their weaknesses, their fears, and experiment with them. He truly was a child at play – a very disturbed one.
Years before he’d been diagnosed as showing symptoms of a borderline personality disorder, then upon his attempt of suicide by overdose he was placed back into the Saint Parrish Sanctuary where he was diagnosed bi-polar, and suffering from acute Dissociative Identity Disorder. Doctors always insisted abuse when black outs and memory loss occurs when other physical ailments have been ruled out.
None of it really made sense to him. It was a never-ending vortex. No matter how much his head spun with the mystery of it all, it never got him any where. It was almost pointless to think about it, but he did.
Finally his hand sat the pen at ease upon the kitchen table. He picked up the half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray and inhaled the smoke of its contents. The plain circle clock over the small wooden table told him it was nearing two-thirty. It really didn’t feel that late. Julian must have been sleeping well. He heard not a peep since he’d fallen asleep.
It was a rather sad life, to live in the solitude of darkness, unable to express to others what you truly are. It was like living someone else’s life, living behind a mask of who you aren’t. He was Kody Angeloro, killer, rapist, and sadist. Drugs, in all their power, were no longer for partying, but his technique of survival. The only life he had outside of his home was his drug dealers, and he wasn’t stupid enough to believe they were actually his friends.
But for whatever reason, he rather enjoyed being illusive. He enjoyed keeping the phone off the hook and not answering the doors when his friends would come to visit. He enjoyed the sanctity of his delusion.
Kody’s hand slipped down into the pocket of his pants, and there clinging inside the corner of his pocket he could feel a chain. He pulled it free, dangling it in front of him. Swinging slightly in the air was the silver letter, A - the gentle reminder of his victim, his love for the day. A pale neck, so small and soft he could almost feel it against his fingers.
The thunder in the distance drew closer, and shook the foundations of the house as the shiny letter swayed, casting a dancing reflection against the eminent darkness of his eyes.