Post by madddogg on Jan 17, 2010 5:06:11 GMT -5
It always starts the same.
Unassuming, rather plain, the little red headed boy, no more than 8, beckons to a nearby pigeon. Cocking its head, it regards him with simple eyes. Friend or foe. Threat or nothing. Should I…piece of bread seals the deal. Not eating in weeks, the small morsels of food are enough to overcome the bird’s nature to stay away from humans. It inches over, pecking warily at one crumb tossed on the ground, a wary eye on the human in front. Just a smile, friendly. Childish delight. The bird takes another small step forward. Another crumb rests closer to the human. The game continues until the bird is pecking at the full slice of bread out of his hand. It is so contented with the meager treat that it even overlooks the young boy petting it gingerly. The fingers wrapping slightly around the bird. Only when the hand encircles the bird does it occur to it that something is wrong. It squawks in alarm as the boy raises it to his face, regarding it with eyes no longer filled with humor or friendship. Cold. The smile is now sinister. Frightening. The bird tries to cry out for help, but the squeezing hand makes it only able to squeak helplessly, lungs compressed.
The boy’s fingers trace over the birds foot, exploring each toe. The foot spasms as the bird tries to free itself, to move its foot out from his touch. Grasping one, he twists it sharply, suddenly, feeling the bone inside snap, and enjoying the agony of the bird…the useless squirming. The head thrashes wildly as it screams, muted by its inability to draw full breath. The fingers work their way up the leg to where the reptilian skin joins feather, and another snap later the bird is lame. It’s fighting intensifies, somehow managing to break a wing free. It flaps back and forth, the pigeon trying desperately, despite its captor to fly free. To nurse the broken leg. To get to safety and heal. Nothing like that is happening today.
“That first taste of power. That first sense of control.”
The boy reaches out for the wing, eyes filled with malice, grasping the wing almost tenderly at first; he feels the muscles, tendons and bones moving inside. Identifying a joint, he places all the pressure he has upon that intersection of the body and with one more cruel twist, the bird is down to one wing. Curious, he drops the bird to the ground, hearing a dull thud as it lands on its useless wing, wrenching one more cry from the wounded animal. Though it cannot process what is happening, it tries to fly away. With one wing, all it succeeds in doing is worthlessly flopping in a circle. Its cries reach a fevered pitch as it dawns on the dumb beast that it is trapped. A rasping laugh emanates from him as he reaches for his bag. Pulling out a small pocket knife, he once more moves for the animal. Its eyes dart back and forth frantically as he approaches. Trying to find safe harbor. Trying to find a hiding spot. Failing.
He grabs the bird around the shoulders, pushing it onto its back on the ground. It bites at him, even succeeding once in drawing a small bead of blood. The boy looks disinterestedly at it before placing the tip of the blade at the top of the bird’s rib cage. Pushing down slowly, blood slowly begins to pool over his fingers as the bird convulses, an awful sound radiating out of its pierced gullet. The fighting slows and the knife penetrates into the organs. Finally, the bird stills. No more torment. No more pain. Just dead eyes gazing outwards, a final tear rolling down the feathers. He looks at the insides that have been made visible by his cruelty.
“The power of life and death. The power over another being.”
And the expression hardens on the child. It wasn’t supposed to end that quick. Be that easy. More fight. More noise. More…more…more…something. Now he’s empty again. It was fun, but fleeting. Temporary. Now he is wanting again. Oh well.
With a quick flick of the wrist, the bird is discarded into some tall weeds. The blade wiped clean in the grass and folded, put back into his pack. The blood on his hands washed off in a nearby water fountain. Within a minute after the grisly dissection of a living creature, he is back in his fake smile again. On his way out of the park, he passes an elderly couple sitting on a bench. A quick nod and a customary ‘maam’ and ‘sir’ elicit a smile out of his geriatric passersby. As he walks away, he allows himself a small measure of pride upon hearing the woman say ‘What a nice boy. I hope our grandson turns out like him.’
“The details differ of course, from case to case to case. But the theme remains the same. Power. Lust. Desire. The need to be something more than one is. The need to be everything to someone else. Usually in the most cruel and despicable of ways.”
The chase ends as it always does. The fat little pig on his back, squealing.
‘Please don’t hurt me, Tommy! I don’t have any lunch money today. My parents can’t afford it!’
The first shot breaks the pig’s nose. Blood splattering his face as the stupid looking nose flattens against his face. Tommy can almost imagine that he can see cartilage coming out of the pig’s flattened snout. Beneath him the whimpering continues that he’s sorry. Maybe even pay double from here on out. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not about the money. It’s about doing what he wants. He has enough money for lunch. Enough for the rest of the week even. He doesn’t need piggy’s money. Doesn’t even really want it. Just enjoys taking it from him. Enjoys seeing Piggy rip it out of his pocket hastily with those sausage fingers, hand it over. Enjoys Piggy’s fear. Enjoys the look in Piggy’s eyes. And, most of all, enjoys it best when Piggy doesn’t have the money. Hitting Piggy is the best part.
“A sadistic, almost compulsive need to lord over others. Perhaps it’s even imbedded in the genetics. Something that can’t be helped. Maybe can’t even be ignored. But those who gleefully feed it, who delight in the sick excesses of their desires, those are the ones. Those are the ones to be watched. The ones for the ordinary man to fear. “
And he keeps raining down blows. One eye is already swollen shut. The upper lip split. The right cheek puffy and purple as the blood pools inside it. A trickle of blood from the left temple, matting the hair. Piggy barely looks human anymore. More like something from the X Files. Still, at some point, when the crying turns to labored wheezing, and it sounds like Piggy is about to choke on his newly broken teeth, Timmy surveys his prey. With one more devastating punch to the mouth, dislodging one more tooth, he stands up.
‘Make sure you have it tomorrow.’
Piggy can’t even answer. Struggling just to breathe. Probably can’t even see. He shattered his glasses with the first punch after all. The stench is horrible. Sometime during it, Piggy must’ve shit his pants. Disgusting. The stain of urine is spreading rapidly across the crotch of his pants. The rest of the kids just stare. Wide eyed and gaping mouths. No, hitting piggy is no longer the best part. This is the best part.
“The drive may be different. The need expressed in various ways, but the desire for power over others, the fear. It is the reason. Like a drug. Some realize it can be spread. Others, well…they just keep it to themselves. But even that is a matter of scale, and variance on a theme. Not real difference.”
She’s gorgeous. He knows it. All the boys talk about how sexy she is. 12 and already with a pair of DD tits. Every guy talks about how bad they wanna nail her. All the dirty things they’d do to her. Some of them he’s never even heard of before. And even though they haven’t had sex…hell he doesn’t even know if he wants to have sex… hearing the boys talk about her, about what they’d do to get her, it makes him fill with warmth. It’s not that he buys the hype that he’s lucky or anything. But, they all want her…and she’s his. He’s taken a little something special from everyone. He almost feels like he owns a little piece of each of them. And her…he owns all of her.
Swaying hips, big tits, (as the boys say) c-cksucking lips, an ass to die for. He should probably get a boner like everyone else, but that’s not what it’s about. At least not for him. He just enjoys having her on his arm and hearing the envious whispers, feeling the longing stares. Flaunting his prize that they can’t have.
“It may even start innocently. Small. Seemingly innocuous. But if it is allowed to feed, it will grow. Until the desire for power, whatever shape that takes, consumes.”
He spies her on the edge of the lunchroom. Maybe he’ll get a French kiss. Make his boys jealous. And that’s when he sees her talking to some chump. Smiling. Laughing. His smiles. His laughs. How dare she share them with others? Batting her whore’s eyelashes. Flirting, by God. FLIRTING! He’ll have none of that. He walks over and digs his fingers into her arms, dragging her away from the interloper. She barely has time to greet him before he drags her away.
‘Hi, Todd, what’re you….HEY! What do you think you’re doing?’
And for the first time, he lashes out. His hand connecting with her jaw. Probably no real damage done. But her eyes widen and her hand flies to her mouth, even as she stumbles backwards, tripping over her own feet. And the fool is upon them.
‘Hey what do you think you’re…’
‘Shove off.’
He hesitates and Todd issues a mean glare. After looking at her helpless on the ground, in very real fear, the other guy decides to keep his skin attached and walks off. Smart guy. He bends down over her with a growl.
‘I don’t know what the hell you think you were doing. But you’re MY girl, and you’re not gonna be screwing other guys behind my back. I don’t even want to see you talking to them. ‘
She tries to protest, but a raise of the hand and she shuts up. They walk back in like nothing ever happened. He wouldn’t find out 'til the next week from some other guy that it was her cousin. Whatever. Point made. She knows her place now.
“Power begets more desire for more power. Absolute power. It grows. The desire rages. Eventually power stops becoming an end, then stops becoming a means, and is as expected as breathing. Every second. Every moment. Then finally, power is no longer seen as an outside thing. Power is within.”
He’d never wanted a little brother. The little brat followed him endlessly like a lost puppy. And he didn’t like puppies either. If there was one good thing, the little idiot had no sense of judgment. Even without his older brother, the twerp did insanely stupid things, probably hoping to show his older brother just how cool and grown up he was. So he’d want to hang out with him. As if. But it had its benefits.
He was tired of Mom demanding he take the little guy places. But that was about to stop.
“At some point, power is seen to be within the monster in training. A part of his being. Something he realizes not only that he possesses over others, but that he has that others do not.”
A trip into the woods. The little twerp was always in the woods. Mom and dad always had to tell him not to run off, to stay out of the creek beds, to stay away from the cliffs, to stay out of the storm drain, and to not climb the high trees. Advantage to him.
‘Ohmygodmikeicannotbeliveyouwantmetogointothewoodswithyouthisissocoolohmygodicantwaitthisisgonnabesomuchfunthisisgonna…’
You get the idea. Almost a mile of that, nonstop, no spacing between words, no breath between sentences. How does he not pass out? Is he even breathing? Not that it matters. They come to the spot. Like a Mexican jumping bean, he starts running everywhere. Mike this. Mike that. Mike look at me. Totally annoying. Then he spots the big dead tree over the bluff. With the longest cooooooool recorded in human history, Mike knows his chance is there.
‘Dare you to climb it.’ Of course there is hesitation. ‘Unless you’re chicken.’
That’s all it takes. The kid is up the tree in a flash. He won’t have Mike thinking he’s chicken. Chickens aren’t cool and he desperately needs Mike to think he’s cool.
‘Isthishighenough?’
‘A little higher.’
He looks almost cute up on top. So proud of how high he climbed. Anybody with a soul would probably have second thoughts. Not Mike. Grasping a good sized chunk of lime stone, he throws a fastball pitch to his brother. It slices open the little guy’s cheek, rocking him on the branch. He almost falls, but instead clings for life.
‘Mikewhattreyadoingyouregonnamakemefall.’
‘That’s the point.’
At that, he starts crying. Big bawling tears. The next shot cracks a rib. He coughs up blood but hangs fast. What a trooper. One to the thigh and the leg slips off, he’s only holding on by an arm. He’s pleading in his annoying everythingisonewrodbuthestalkingparagraphs sort of way. A nice chunk of quartz is sitting there at his feet. Sharp, jagged, and about the size of a softball.
‘I never wanted a brother. Especially not one as annoying as you.’
And with the final recognition in the little bastard’s eyes of his older brother’s contempt, he lets the stone fly. It catches his little brother in the throat, dropping him from the branch. Betrayal registers in his eyes, until his head catches on a rock, cracking open the skull and sending blood flying out. It’s the last thing his eyes register as he flies over the cliff and out of sight.
Mike smears some dirt on his clothes and face and walks back, beginning the practice his spiel…
‘Honest Mom, I don’t know what happened. He climbed the tree. I told him not to, but you know him. He doesn’t listen. Then he was falling, and I did everything I could to catch him. But I couldn’t, and he’s gone mom.’
Then the fake tears start. He’s able to turn them off almost immediately and start the whole thing over. Practice makes perfect after all.
“After they realize some have power and some don’t, the mind slowly begins to change it. It’s no longer that some have power and some don’t. It’s that they have power. No one else. And if someone else SEEMS to have power, it’s only the illegitimate façade of power. Cheated. Fake power. Easily taken away. The sense of importance. Or real power. It ONLY belongs to them.”
She walks in to see him petting her rabbit.
‘What are you doing with Mr. Floppy?’
He ignores the question. Watching her squirm. Lets her ask again. Twice more. Decides to answer with a question. ‘So you told Mom and Dad I went out with Donny instead of studying with Wilbur?’
She nods without care. ‘They asked, I answered.’
He continues petting the rabbit. It really is a majestic creature. Colored gorgeously.
‘Cause I did. What are you going to do about it?’
The response is swift, brutal. The rabbits head has been twisted upside-down before she even realizes it. He drops the corpse on the floor without emotion. It takes a second for her to recognize that her prized rabbit is a lifeless pile of fur and bones on the carpet. The tears come virtually immediately. The wail is barely human. She cradles the dead creature, trying to stroke its fur and pet it back to life. Snatching her by the hair he drags her from the animal, kicking it to the corner.
‘Mr. Floppy!’
‘Listen you little piece of sh-t. I’m not happy I got in trouble because of you.’
‘You shouldn’t have snuck out.’ She begins weeping. ‘Mr. Floppy.’
‘Don’t worry. Mom and Dad will probably buy you a new one. There are plenty of rabbits. We can always get a new one.’ He waits a minute for the cruel remark to set in. He enjoys her tears. ‘And for that matter, Mom and Dad can always have another kid too.’ The tears stop immediately. ‘How did Mr. Floppy die?’
Barely holding back the tears, she stutters...‘I don’t know. I came in and he was already dead.’
He drops her. Letting her sniffle ad he tosses her a shoebox. She has to bury her beloved pet, scoop the lifeless and bloody carcass into a box to be shoveled into the Earth, or…knowing dad, be tossed in the trash. She’s learned a lesson.
“At some point, once this lesson is learned, the learner sees themself as different from everyone else. Special. Either they are above humans, superhuman. Or others are something less than human. For these people, this is the only important lesson learned during childhood. They are something special and others exist only at their whim. Once the segregation from humanity happens, they become something beyond a sociopath. Incapable of understanding right from wrong, because right and wrong belong to humans, not to what they are. They see themselves as more. Right and wrong is whatever they make it. Because they, they are something more than humanity. What…they don’t know. But that comes with time. And as that forms, they only get more dangerous.”
“Once they see themselves as more than human, or humans as less than them, the next step is inevitable…”
Unassuming, rather plain, the little red headed boy, no more than 8, beckons to a nearby pigeon. Cocking its head, it regards him with simple eyes. Friend or foe. Threat or nothing. Should I…piece of bread seals the deal. Not eating in weeks, the small morsels of food are enough to overcome the bird’s nature to stay away from humans. It inches over, pecking warily at one crumb tossed on the ground, a wary eye on the human in front. Just a smile, friendly. Childish delight. The bird takes another small step forward. Another crumb rests closer to the human. The game continues until the bird is pecking at the full slice of bread out of his hand. It is so contented with the meager treat that it even overlooks the young boy petting it gingerly. The fingers wrapping slightly around the bird. Only when the hand encircles the bird does it occur to it that something is wrong. It squawks in alarm as the boy raises it to his face, regarding it with eyes no longer filled with humor or friendship. Cold. The smile is now sinister. Frightening. The bird tries to cry out for help, but the squeezing hand makes it only able to squeak helplessly, lungs compressed.
The boy’s fingers trace over the birds foot, exploring each toe. The foot spasms as the bird tries to free itself, to move its foot out from his touch. Grasping one, he twists it sharply, suddenly, feeling the bone inside snap, and enjoying the agony of the bird…the useless squirming. The head thrashes wildly as it screams, muted by its inability to draw full breath. The fingers work their way up the leg to where the reptilian skin joins feather, and another snap later the bird is lame. It’s fighting intensifies, somehow managing to break a wing free. It flaps back and forth, the pigeon trying desperately, despite its captor to fly free. To nurse the broken leg. To get to safety and heal. Nothing like that is happening today.
“That first taste of power. That first sense of control.”
The boy reaches out for the wing, eyes filled with malice, grasping the wing almost tenderly at first; he feels the muscles, tendons and bones moving inside. Identifying a joint, he places all the pressure he has upon that intersection of the body and with one more cruel twist, the bird is down to one wing. Curious, he drops the bird to the ground, hearing a dull thud as it lands on its useless wing, wrenching one more cry from the wounded animal. Though it cannot process what is happening, it tries to fly away. With one wing, all it succeeds in doing is worthlessly flopping in a circle. Its cries reach a fevered pitch as it dawns on the dumb beast that it is trapped. A rasping laugh emanates from him as he reaches for his bag. Pulling out a small pocket knife, he once more moves for the animal. Its eyes dart back and forth frantically as he approaches. Trying to find safe harbor. Trying to find a hiding spot. Failing.
He grabs the bird around the shoulders, pushing it onto its back on the ground. It bites at him, even succeeding once in drawing a small bead of blood. The boy looks disinterestedly at it before placing the tip of the blade at the top of the bird’s rib cage. Pushing down slowly, blood slowly begins to pool over his fingers as the bird convulses, an awful sound radiating out of its pierced gullet. The fighting slows and the knife penetrates into the organs. Finally, the bird stills. No more torment. No more pain. Just dead eyes gazing outwards, a final tear rolling down the feathers. He looks at the insides that have been made visible by his cruelty.
“The power of life and death. The power over another being.”
And the expression hardens on the child. It wasn’t supposed to end that quick. Be that easy. More fight. More noise. More…more…more…something. Now he’s empty again. It was fun, but fleeting. Temporary. Now he is wanting again. Oh well.
With a quick flick of the wrist, the bird is discarded into some tall weeds. The blade wiped clean in the grass and folded, put back into his pack. The blood on his hands washed off in a nearby water fountain. Within a minute after the grisly dissection of a living creature, he is back in his fake smile again. On his way out of the park, he passes an elderly couple sitting on a bench. A quick nod and a customary ‘maam’ and ‘sir’ elicit a smile out of his geriatric passersby. As he walks away, he allows himself a small measure of pride upon hearing the woman say ‘What a nice boy. I hope our grandson turns out like him.’
“The details differ of course, from case to case to case. But the theme remains the same. Power. Lust. Desire. The need to be something more than one is. The need to be everything to someone else. Usually in the most cruel and despicable of ways.”
The chase ends as it always does. The fat little pig on his back, squealing.
‘Please don’t hurt me, Tommy! I don’t have any lunch money today. My parents can’t afford it!’
The first shot breaks the pig’s nose. Blood splattering his face as the stupid looking nose flattens against his face. Tommy can almost imagine that he can see cartilage coming out of the pig’s flattened snout. Beneath him the whimpering continues that he’s sorry. Maybe even pay double from here on out. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not about the money. It’s about doing what he wants. He has enough money for lunch. Enough for the rest of the week even. He doesn’t need piggy’s money. Doesn’t even really want it. Just enjoys taking it from him. Enjoys seeing Piggy rip it out of his pocket hastily with those sausage fingers, hand it over. Enjoys Piggy’s fear. Enjoys the look in Piggy’s eyes. And, most of all, enjoys it best when Piggy doesn’t have the money. Hitting Piggy is the best part.
“A sadistic, almost compulsive need to lord over others. Perhaps it’s even imbedded in the genetics. Something that can’t be helped. Maybe can’t even be ignored. But those who gleefully feed it, who delight in the sick excesses of their desires, those are the ones. Those are the ones to be watched. The ones for the ordinary man to fear. “
And he keeps raining down blows. One eye is already swollen shut. The upper lip split. The right cheek puffy and purple as the blood pools inside it. A trickle of blood from the left temple, matting the hair. Piggy barely looks human anymore. More like something from the X Files. Still, at some point, when the crying turns to labored wheezing, and it sounds like Piggy is about to choke on his newly broken teeth, Timmy surveys his prey. With one more devastating punch to the mouth, dislodging one more tooth, he stands up.
‘Make sure you have it tomorrow.’
Piggy can’t even answer. Struggling just to breathe. Probably can’t even see. He shattered his glasses with the first punch after all. The stench is horrible. Sometime during it, Piggy must’ve shit his pants. Disgusting. The stain of urine is spreading rapidly across the crotch of his pants. The rest of the kids just stare. Wide eyed and gaping mouths. No, hitting piggy is no longer the best part. This is the best part.
“The drive may be different. The need expressed in various ways, but the desire for power over others, the fear. It is the reason. Like a drug. Some realize it can be spread. Others, well…they just keep it to themselves. But even that is a matter of scale, and variance on a theme. Not real difference.”
She’s gorgeous. He knows it. All the boys talk about how sexy she is. 12 and already with a pair of DD tits. Every guy talks about how bad they wanna nail her. All the dirty things they’d do to her. Some of them he’s never even heard of before. And even though they haven’t had sex…hell he doesn’t even know if he wants to have sex… hearing the boys talk about her, about what they’d do to get her, it makes him fill with warmth. It’s not that he buys the hype that he’s lucky or anything. But, they all want her…and she’s his. He’s taken a little something special from everyone. He almost feels like he owns a little piece of each of them. And her…he owns all of her.
Swaying hips, big tits, (as the boys say) c-cksucking lips, an ass to die for. He should probably get a boner like everyone else, but that’s not what it’s about. At least not for him. He just enjoys having her on his arm and hearing the envious whispers, feeling the longing stares. Flaunting his prize that they can’t have.
“It may even start innocently. Small. Seemingly innocuous. But if it is allowed to feed, it will grow. Until the desire for power, whatever shape that takes, consumes.”
He spies her on the edge of the lunchroom. Maybe he’ll get a French kiss. Make his boys jealous. And that’s when he sees her talking to some chump. Smiling. Laughing. His smiles. His laughs. How dare she share them with others? Batting her whore’s eyelashes. Flirting, by God. FLIRTING! He’ll have none of that. He walks over and digs his fingers into her arms, dragging her away from the interloper. She barely has time to greet him before he drags her away.
‘Hi, Todd, what’re you….HEY! What do you think you’re doing?’
And for the first time, he lashes out. His hand connecting with her jaw. Probably no real damage done. But her eyes widen and her hand flies to her mouth, even as she stumbles backwards, tripping over her own feet. And the fool is upon them.
‘Hey what do you think you’re…’
‘Shove off.’
He hesitates and Todd issues a mean glare. After looking at her helpless on the ground, in very real fear, the other guy decides to keep his skin attached and walks off. Smart guy. He bends down over her with a growl.
‘I don’t know what the hell you think you were doing. But you’re MY girl, and you’re not gonna be screwing other guys behind my back. I don’t even want to see you talking to them. ‘
She tries to protest, but a raise of the hand and she shuts up. They walk back in like nothing ever happened. He wouldn’t find out 'til the next week from some other guy that it was her cousin. Whatever. Point made. She knows her place now.
“Power begets more desire for more power. Absolute power. It grows. The desire rages. Eventually power stops becoming an end, then stops becoming a means, and is as expected as breathing. Every second. Every moment. Then finally, power is no longer seen as an outside thing. Power is within.”
He’d never wanted a little brother. The little brat followed him endlessly like a lost puppy. And he didn’t like puppies either. If there was one good thing, the little idiot had no sense of judgment. Even without his older brother, the twerp did insanely stupid things, probably hoping to show his older brother just how cool and grown up he was. So he’d want to hang out with him. As if. But it had its benefits.
He was tired of Mom demanding he take the little guy places. But that was about to stop.
“At some point, power is seen to be within the monster in training. A part of his being. Something he realizes not only that he possesses over others, but that he has that others do not.”
A trip into the woods. The little twerp was always in the woods. Mom and dad always had to tell him not to run off, to stay out of the creek beds, to stay away from the cliffs, to stay out of the storm drain, and to not climb the high trees. Advantage to him.
‘Ohmygodmikeicannotbeliveyouwantmetogointothewoodswithyouthisissocoolohmygodicantwaitthisisgonnabesomuchfunthisisgonna…’
You get the idea. Almost a mile of that, nonstop, no spacing between words, no breath between sentences. How does he not pass out? Is he even breathing? Not that it matters. They come to the spot. Like a Mexican jumping bean, he starts running everywhere. Mike this. Mike that. Mike look at me. Totally annoying. Then he spots the big dead tree over the bluff. With the longest cooooooool recorded in human history, Mike knows his chance is there.
‘Dare you to climb it.’ Of course there is hesitation. ‘Unless you’re chicken.’
That’s all it takes. The kid is up the tree in a flash. He won’t have Mike thinking he’s chicken. Chickens aren’t cool and he desperately needs Mike to think he’s cool.
‘Isthishighenough?’
‘A little higher.’
He looks almost cute up on top. So proud of how high he climbed. Anybody with a soul would probably have second thoughts. Not Mike. Grasping a good sized chunk of lime stone, he throws a fastball pitch to his brother. It slices open the little guy’s cheek, rocking him on the branch. He almost falls, but instead clings for life.
‘Mikewhattreyadoingyouregonnamakemefall.’
‘That’s the point.’
At that, he starts crying. Big bawling tears. The next shot cracks a rib. He coughs up blood but hangs fast. What a trooper. One to the thigh and the leg slips off, he’s only holding on by an arm. He’s pleading in his annoying everythingisonewrodbuthestalkingparagraphs sort of way. A nice chunk of quartz is sitting there at his feet. Sharp, jagged, and about the size of a softball.
‘I never wanted a brother. Especially not one as annoying as you.’
And with the final recognition in the little bastard’s eyes of his older brother’s contempt, he lets the stone fly. It catches his little brother in the throat, dropping him from the branch. Betrayal registers in his eyes, until his head catches on a rock, cracking open the skull and sending blood flying out. It’s the last thing his eyes register as he flies over the cliff and out of sight.
Mike smears some dirt on his clothes and face and walks back, beginning the practice his spiel…
‘Honest Mom, I don’t know what happened. He climbed the tree. I told him not to, but you know him. He doesn’t listen. Then he was falling, and I did everything I could to catch him. But I couldn’t, and he’s gone mom.’
Then the fake tears start. He’s able to turn them off almost immediately and start the whole thing over. Practice makes perfect after all.
“After they realize some have power and some don’t, the mind slowly begins to change it. It’s no longer that some have power and some don’t. It’s that they have power. No one else. And if someone else SEEMS to have power, it’s only the illegitimate façade of power. Cheated. Fake power. Easily taken away. The sense of importance. Or real power. It ONLY belongs to them.”
She walks in to see him petting her rabbit.
‘What are you doing with Mr. Floppy?’
He ignores the question. Watching her squirm. Lets her ask again. Twice more. Decides to answer with a question. ‘So you told Mom and Dad I went out with Donny instead of studying with Wilbur?’
She nods without care. ‘They asked, I answered.’
He continues petting the rabbit. It really is a majestic creature. Colored gorgeously.
‘Cause I did. What are you going to do about it?’
The response is swift, brutal. The rabbits head has been twisted upside-down before she even realizes it. He drops the corpse on the floor without emotion. It takes a second for her to recognize that her prized rabbit is a lifeless pile of fur and bones on the carpet. The tears come virtually immediately. The wail is barely human. She cradles the dead creature, trying to stroke its fur and pet it back to life. Snatching her by the hair he drags her from the animal, kicking it to the corner.
‘Mr. Floppy!’
‘Listen you little piece of sh-t. I’m not happy I got in trouble because of you.’
‘You shouldn’t have snuck out.’ She begins weeping. ‘Mr. Floppy.’
‘Don’t worry. Mom and Dad will probably buy you a new one. There are plenty of rabbits. We can always get a new one.’ He waits a minute for the cruel remark to set in. He enjoys her tears. ‘And for that matter, Mom and Dad can always have another kid too.’ The tears stop immediately. ‘How did Mr. Floppy die?’
Barely holding back the tears, she stutters...‘I don’t know. I came in and he was already dead.’
He drops her. Letting her sniffle ad he tosses her a shoebox. She has to bury her beloved pet, scoop the lifeless and bloody carcass into a box to be shoveled into the Earth, or…knowing dad, be tossed in the trash. She’s learned a lesson.
“At some point, once this lesson is learned, the learner sees themself as different from everyone else. Special. Either they are above humans, superhuman. Or others are something less than human. For these people, this is the only important lesson learned during childhood. They are something special and others exist only at their whim. Once the segregation from humanity happens, they become something beyond a sociopath. Incapable of understanding right from wrong, because right and wrong belong to humans, not to what they are. They see themselves as more. Right and wrong is whatever they make it. Because they, they are something more than humanity. What…they don’t know. But that comes with time. And as that forms, they only get more dangerous.”
“Once they see themselves as more than human, or humans as less than them, the next step is inevitable…”
