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Member
Join Date: Dec 2005
Posts: 5
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Work 2
Introduction for Work 2
This exact moment, I am pushing through the mist filling my head, pad and pen handy, looking for such a quote. My problem is, it’s the sad memories which are glued strongest to my conscious. It’s like some fog of war, obscuring me from finding the warm memories, without unexpectedly first stepping in cold, murky pools of shit and filth. I’m not on some stupid noble quest, climbing up a snowy mountain alone in the night carrying a banner that reads, ‘I don’t want to write about these stories, but the people must hear them,’ mostly it just seems like all of the pools of filth might actually make good stories. Maybe, by telling these stories, I can learn a little as well. Terrific.
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Work 2
Some children find immense satisfaction in being cruel and evil. Maybe all children secretly feed this desire. Why do kids do these things to each other?
For some reason I remember him wearing short shorts and a blazer. Everyone knows that wearing blazers, especially cheap second-hand kind, is no good for seven year old boys. I bet no one ever thought about how long a blazer lasts in a sandbox under a trampoline. Hopefully, the seamstresses who sewed the blazer for a six year old boy knew to make the seams extra strong. . My blazer wearing friend did some weird things, for example every time we played army, ninjas, or heroes, after we beat the bad guys or made friends with them, he would always sing like credits are going by and clap. At age six, (or maybe it was five?) I decided it would be my job to teach my friend a few important lessons.
In the merciful shade of a large tree, I bent over hands on sandy knees, breathing hard after defeating a ninja goddess in mortal combat. I glanced over my shoulder, my sidekick was joyfully clapping while singing a tune for the credits! “Look, you can’t do that, okay? We’re not done, there will be more bad guys to fight,” I reprimanded him. I was annoyed. After all, he was out of character, breaking the unspoken rule which clearly states that imaginary games only end when adults lean outside and call all children back in. This kid just didn’t get it. He went right on smiling, singing, and clapping. What an idiot. And plus, every time we played super heroes, he always said he had the force field power, and that nothing could go through a force field. Ya right- what the heck even was a force field? (It couldn’t have been possible that he might’ve known about more powers than me).
My problem was, I always got pissed whenever he did something that didn’t fit into my perfect world. I never wanted him to have powers that were as good as or better than mine. I wanted to be the best. I didn’t want him to clap and sing after an adventure, because I didn’t think it ought to be that way. I suppose the real message I continually sent him was, “be exactly like me; however, make sure that you never are as cool, or as good as me.” I honestly believed that I was better than him, (probably because his parents weren’t as rich as mine) and so his ‘falsities’ (things he did differently than I thought they should be) justified my experimentally torturing him.
I remember his mom’s funeral. Everyone was crying. My two older sisters sat next to me hands trembling, trying to hold a book in front of their faces. I don’t understand what the big shame is about crying, especially at a funeral. On the way to the grave my friend rode in the hearse with his mom. I remember he came over later that week. We sat in the playroom poking around with blocks. I never would have thought of it if my mother hadn’t told me before he came over never to mention the subject. “You know,” I paused slowly, “it was your fault your mom died. You were in the car when the drunk driver hit, and you lived and she died. It was all your fault.” He started sobbing uncontrollably. I held out my arms, and he crawled forward to me, buried his innocent head and sobbed. My cold gaze focused on the wall behind him. We were only two little boys. I wonder if were even six. Why the hell would I ever do that? Looking back, the worst thing was, I think he absolutely believed me. He admired me like an older brother because, after all, I didn’t wear old hand-me-down blazers; I was cool.
I believed my friend deserved the punishment I dealt him just because he was different than me. But my punishing wasn’t only limited to friends, I attacked family as well.
I really caught my Dad off guard the first time. He asked me to help my sisters set the table. “No.” Hands hanging loosely in my pockets I stood my ground and returned his surprised expression with a steady gaze. I loved the exhilarating feeling I got. I completely refused, and stood tall. I didn’t care what he thought or said. I smiled at him. Years later, I smiled to my parents as the yelled and screamed at me and each other. I was in control. I remember my step-mom pleading with me to please stop, it was midnight, and her kids couldn’t sleep. At age ten I casually told her to go fuck off, while my dad screamed in frustration and anger. The attacks on my family were different than my attacks on my friend. I tortured my friend for his accidental non-conformity to my ways and because I enjoyed experimenting with power. My war on my family was one of revenge.
Years ago I cried until I fell asleep while my parents screamed at each other and ran up and down the hall. I whispered into Curious George’s ear quietly. My yellow blanket was pulled up to my chin. We were afraid of the dark, so the door had to be halfway open, making everything more audible. Usually it ended with one of my sisters pleading with them to stop, and then the sound of running footsteps down the hall. Tires screech in the driveway.
My war with those who cared about me most went on for years. My mother called me a monster. Eventually I collapsed. I wasn’t interested in power, no longer cared if people were different than me, and gave up on vengeance. It’s not healthy to live that way. I broke down.
Dang, so many sad memories. I’d like to think that I never wanted to kill people, never wanted bad things to happen to good people, never was a pervert, never bullied, never picked a fight. I understand as a child, I was somewhat innocent, and maybe a product of things happening around me, but I’ll always have the shame. How many people did I stab before I began to feel sad about stabbing? My ability to feel came at a high cost. Some are lucky not to have to pay the high tariff I paid.
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