Page 92 of Stalker

Scourges of the earth.

I’d made it an art form to pick out one asshole from another, honing my observation skills until I could even look across the room and know without a shadow of a doubt when some animal was about to perform an evil deed.

That hadn’t made me a very popular kid even when I’d tried to blend in. Maybe because I’d broken my share of noses as a child.

That kid is pure evil.

How many mothers had screamed that after I’d slugged their bully of a son?

How many neighbors had faked concern over my wellbeing only to run away in fear when I’d walked in front of their well-manicured homes?

Why the fuck was I reminiscing?

I stood staring out the window of my kitchen, a mug of now cold coffee in my hand.

I’d sent her away.

I’d offered her what was left of my heart and I’d turned my back on her.

After taking Cassandra home, I’d returned to the shore. I’d needed space or maybe I’d honestly needed distance from her.

She’d acted shocked I’d denied her entrance into the world that would eventually eat her alive. I’d been shocked she’d allowed me to drop her off at her house, although she had exited my vehicle only two seconds after I’d pulled it to the curb.

I was no crusader, no martyr. Hell, I had nothing good left inside of me, but the one act of denying her was perhaps something I could be remembered by. Maybe it was something they could put on my gravestone.

I’d saved a woman from embracing the darkness.

Childhood memories.

I had very little interaction with the social workers that had initially clamored around me as a young child. As everyone had expected, I’d been driven into shock, unable to talk or sleep. I remembered bits and pieces of the time, including hearing them talk about me as if I wasn’t in the room.

In a way, I hadn’t been.

I’d been locked in a dark warped box in my mind, still processing the images that had constantly played out in my thoughts day and night. I do remember they’d finally resorted to admitting me to a hospital where I’d been stuck with needles. I’d suspected later in life they’d been forced to fill me with nutrients since I’d also refused to eat.

Had I asked for my brothers even once? That I couldn’t remember.

Everything had been a huge blur, only a single woman’s face remaining contorted like a monster in my fucked-up little mind. She’d tried to be nice, shoving away mean-looking policemen who’d continued to try to ask me questions about what had happened.

How was I to know if I’d told them anything?

What could I have told them anyway? That my father came home like he usually did, only this time going for her throat. It had all been over with fast, but as I thought about it now, the way the visions played out in my mind were as if the moment had dragged on for hours.

While I’d never forget her screams, begging for her children to be saved, both his ugly childhood rhyme followed by the intense silence had haunted me even more.

My two brothers hadn’t made a single peep.

Not one.

Not a wail.

Not a whimper.

They’d just watched in horror as our lives had been ripped away from us.

Had I even tried to be protective? I did remember asking questions when I was six or seven, begging my foster parents at the time to find my parents. Had I wanted them to be alive or had I blocked out the horror? That’s when the lying had begun. First, I’d been told they didn’t want to see me because I was a bad boy.

Then they’d told me they were dead.

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