of the
pack, Dannyboy. Come on, show me what you’ve got.”
I was too afraid to give it all I had. What
if I really hurt my father? How angry would he get then? So I held
back, grappled with him until he laughed and pinned me to the
ground, digging his elbow into my back and pressing my face to the
floor, squeezing every molecule of oxygen out of my system, his
grin hanging over me, waiting, just waiting, for me to think I was
about to die.
black spots dancing in front of my eyes,
behind the tears being squeezed out, losing sight of my mother in
the kitchen, she’s disappearing and she hasn’t even turned around,
I’m dying and she won’t even turn around to see
It’s a few moments before I realize Bobby is
waiting just outside the kitchen area. I blink and look up at
him.
“How’s dinner coming along, kiddo?”
I clear my throat. “A few more minutes.”
It’s safe here with Bobby, I keep telling
myself, smelling the sizzle of the steak and the weaker aromas of
the pea pods and broccoli.
-19-
“Why is this happening now?” I ask Lila after
Bobby has begun snoring in the bedroom. My fingers scratch her
velvety ears. “I’m safe here. I shouldn’t be freaking out like
this.”
Lila looks at me. She’s just a dog. She
doesn’t have any answers for me. I roll onto my side to stare at
the television.
I shouldn’t be afraid of those memories. My
father is dead. I killed him. There was no way he could have lived
through what I did, any more than that old man and his wife, or
Paul the pervert, or any of the countless others I’ve woken up to
find dead. I shouldn’t still be afraid of my father.
I should be afraid of myself.
I still don’t know what triggers it. I always
had a feeling it was hunger, or anger. But it wasn’t always. And it
was only less likely to happen when I was feeling full and safe and
warm. And it hasn’t happened once since I’ve been with Lila, or
this whole time I’ve been living here with Bobby.
It would be helpful to know what “it” is. Am
I a psychopath? A multiple personality? Is a secret CIA program
controlling my brain?
None of the late night reruns of Dr. Phil
have cleared this up at all.
All I know is that it doesn’t feel like a
part of me that does that,
(the killing ripping apart eating thing)
more like a psychotic hitchhiker in my
brain.
If I go home, and they are looking for me as
a murderer, maybe I don’t go to jail. Maybe my lawyer can plead
insanity and I’ll be in a mental hospital for the criminally
insane.
I think I’d prefer jail.
It’s not that I’m denying I have a mental
disorder. It’s more that I don’t trust people. Especially doctors
who’d want to drug me up and who’d probably only make it worse. I’d
rather be in a cage than a straightjacket.
My two options – jail or hospital. Probably
why I chose the open road instead.
This time when I begin dreaming I know it is
a dream. My cousin Kayla stands before me in the white dress she
wore to church on Sundays. We always went to church, my mother,
Aunt Jennifer, Kayla, and me. My father and Uncle Red never came.
Sundays were their hunting days, but even if they didn’t go hunting
they stayed at home rather than come to church with us. I hated
those days. My father would see me in the suit and tie my mom made
me wear to church and say things like, “One day you’ll see dressing
like a sissy ain’t gonna make God love you.”
Kayla’s white dress has puffy sleeves and a
white ribbon around the waist. Now that I see it on her, standing
in the moonlight, looking fifteen instead of twelve, I realize that
she hadn’t worn that white dress for a least a few years before I
left. It’s a dress for a third grader, not the teenager wearing it
now.
She’s even wearing lacy ankle socks and black
Mary Janes.
I stare at her from where I lay on the couch.
I know she is a dream, so why bother getting up?
“There are things you don’t remember, Danny,”
Kayla
pack, Dannyboy. Come on, show me what you’ve got.”
I was too afraid to give it all I had. What
if I really hurt my father? How angry would he get then? So I held
back, grappled with him until he laughed and pinned me to the
ground, digging his elbow into my back and pressing my face to the
floor, squeezing every molecule of oxygen out of my system, his
grin hanging over me, waiting, just waiting, for me to think I was
about to die.
black spots dancing in front of my eyes,
behind the tears being squeezed out, losing sight of my mother in
the kitchen, she’s disappearing and she hasn’t even turned around,
I’m dying and she won’t even turn around to see
It’s a few moments before I realize Bobby is
waiting just outside the kitchen area. I blink and look up at
him.
“How’s dinner coming along, kiddo?”
I clear my throat. “A few more minutes.”
It’s safe here with Bobby, I keep telling
myself, smelling the sizzle of the steak and the weaker aromas of
the pea pods and broccoli.
-19-
“Why is this happening now?” I ask Lila after
Bobby has begun snoring in the bedroom. My fingers scratch her
velvety ears. “I’m safe here. I shouldn’t be freaking out like
this.”
Lila looks at me. She’s just a dog. She
doesn’t have any answers for me. I roll onto my side to stare at
the television.
I shouldn’t be afraid of those memories. My
father is dead. I killed him. There was no way he could have lived
through what I did, any more than that old man and his wife, or
Paul the pervert, or any of the countless others I’ve woken up to
find dead. I shouldn’t still be afraid of my father.
I should be afraid of myself.
I still don’t know what triggers it. I always
had a feeling it was hunger, or anger. But it wasn’t always. And it
was only less likely to happen when I was feeling full and safe and
warm. And it hasn’t happened once since I’ve been with Lila, or
this whole time I’ve been living here with Bobby.
It would be helpful to know what “it” is. Am
I a psychopath? A multiple personality? Is a secret CIA program
controlling my brain?
None of the late night reruns of Dr. Phil
have cleared this up at all.
All I know is that it doesn’t feel like a
part of me that does that,
(the killing ripping apart eating thing)
more like a psychotic hitchhiker in my
brain.
If I go home, and they are looking for me as
a murderer, maybe I don’t go to jail. Maybe my lawyer can plead
insanity and I’ll be in a mental hospital for the criminally
insane.
I think I’d prefer jail.
It’s not that I’m denying I have a mental
disorder. It’s more that I don’t trust people. Especially doctors
who’d want to drug me up and who’d probably only make it worse. I’d
rather be in a cage than a straightjacket.
My two options – jail or hospital. Probably
why I chose the open road instead.
This time when I begin dreaming I know it is
a dream. My cousin Kayla stands before me in the white dress she
wore to church on Sundays. We always went to church, my mother,
Aunt Jennifer, Kayla, and me. My father and Uncle Red never came.
Sundays were their hunting days, but even if they didn’t go hunting
they stayed at home rather than come to church with us. I hated
those days. My father would see me in the suit and tie my mom made
me wear to church and say things like, “One day you’ll see dressing
like a sissy ain’t gonna make God love you.”
Kayla’s white dress has puffy sleeves and a
white ribbon around the waist. Now that I see it on her, standing
in the moonlight, looking fifteen instead of twelve, I realize that
she hadn’t worn that white dress for a least a few years before I
left. It’s a dress for a third grader, not the teenager wearing it
now.
She’s even wearing lacy ankle socks and black
Mary Janes.
I stare at her from where I lay on the couch.
I know she is a dream, so why bother getting up?
“There are things you don’t remember, Danny,”
Kayla
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