Post by TheDeathDealer on Dec 2, 2022 13:37:14 GMT -5
I have a dark secret I cannot tell.
Sometimes it feels like a wizard's spell.
I've been told it's not my fault.
How could I know it was assault?
I still see him everywhere.
Why is that? It's so unfair.
He took away my innocence.
He forced me into silence.
They say I should forgive.
But he's made my life hard to live.
I see him in my dreams.
I hope he can hear my screams.
It isn't fair that he's free.
He ruined my life the day he molested me.
I try to move forward.
But it's as if I'm anchored.
Surrounded by the dark I stare through his window and watch him in his recliner. He was a shell of his former self, wasted away to nothing but skin and bones, tethered to an oxygen tank, and his left foot taken by diabetes. This man in front of me is a far cry from the man who took much more than a foot from me.
I was only twelve years old the first time it happened, when he came to my room tweaking, to this day I still carry the mental and physical scars from my time with him. I play one of many incidents over and over in my head constantly, many of them my mind has blocked out, but this one plays like a movie in my head. It was Thanksgiving day and I sat at a table alone in my bedroom. My skinny, undernourished arms moved at a fever pitch as I drew a picture. The picture was of a woman's face, not beautiful but plain. Her eyes jumped off the notebook paper and grabbed you, the hurt in them is deep, so deep you could drown in them, a pain reflected from my own eyes onto the paper. My breath is visible, as the room surrounding me is not properly heated and the windows are uninsulated, I lay the pencil down only to warm my numb fingers with my own breath.
The walls are covered with drawings and posters of bands such as Alice In Chains, and Pantera, artists whose lyrics paint a portrait of words similar to the paintings I drew with a pencil. Nutshell by Alice in chains plays softly on the stereo that sits on a small table next to a small bed with dirty and ragged sheets. The music is soon drowned out by yelling coming from downstairs.
Male Voice: YOU STUPID B*TCH! I TOLD YOU MILLER LITE, NOT MILWAUKEE'S BEST! ARE YOU TRYING TO P*SS ME OFF!?!
Female Voice: I'm sorry I didn't have the money for...
Male Voice: BULLSH*T! YOU SPENT YOUR TRICK MONEY ON ROCK! I'LL PUT YOUR A$S ON THE CORNER RIGHT NOW!
Female Voice: You're the only one buying rocks, I barely had enough to buy food.
Male Voice: WELL IF YOU KNEW HOW TO SUCK A D....
The voices were drowned out as I reached over and cranked up the volume on the radio.
Sometimes it feels like a wizard's spell.
I've been told it's not my fault.
How could I know it was assault?
I still see him everywhere.
Why is that? It's so unfair.
He took away my innocence.
He forced me into silence.
They say I should forgive.
But he's made my life hard to live.
I see him in my dreams.
I hope he can hear my screams.
It isn't fair that he's free.
He ruined my life the day he molested me.
I try to move forward.
But it's as if I'm anchored.
Surrounded by the dark I stare through his window and watch him in his recliner. He was a shell of his former self, wasted away to nothing but skin and bones, tethered to an oxygen tank, and his left foot taken by diabetes. This man in front of me is a far cry from the man who took much more than a foot from me.
I was only twelve years old the first time it happened, when he came to my room tweaking, to this day I still carry the mental and physical scars from my time with him. I play one of many incidents over and over in my head constantly, many of them my mind has blocked out, but this one plays like a movie in my head. It was Thanksgiving day and I sat at a table alone in my bedroom. My skinny, undernourished arms moved at a fever pitch as I drew a picture. The picture was of a woman's face, not beautiful but plain. Her eyes jumped off the notebook paper and grabbed you, the hurt in them is deep, so deep you could drown in them, a pain reflected from my own eyes onto the paper. My breath is visible, as the room surrounding me is not properly heated and the windows are uninsulated, I lay the pencil down only to warm my numb fingers with my own breath.
The walls are covered with drawings and posters of bands such as Alice In Chains, and Pantera, artists whose lyrics paint a portrait of words similar to the paintings I drew with a pencil. Nutshell by Alice in chains plays softly on the stereo that sits on a small table next to a small bed with dirty and ragged sheets. The music is soon drowned out by yelling coming from downstairs.
Male Voice: YOU STUPID B*TCH! I TOLD YOU MILLER LITE, NOT MILWAUKEE'S BEST! ARE YOU TRYING TO P*SS ME OFF!?!
Female Voice: I'm sorry I didn't have the money for...
Male Voice: BULLSH*T! YOU SPENT YOUR TRICK MONEY ON ROCK! I'LL PUT YOUR A$S ON THE CORNER RIGHT NOW!
Female Voice: You're the only one buying rocks, I barely had enough to buy food.
Male Voice: WELL IF YOU KNEW HOW TO SUCK A D....
The voices were drowned out as I reached over and cranked up the volume on the radio.
My gift of self is raped
My privacy is raked
And yet I find
And yet I find
Repeating in my head
If I can't be my own
I'd feel better dead
The door of the bedroom flew open and there stood the bare-chested African American man, whom I now watched through the window. Then he was in his physical prime, wearing only a pair of Cleveland Browns sweatpants and black house shoes. In one hand he holds a can of Milwaukee's best, and in the other a leather belt
It wasn't the first time he had come into my room. On some occasions it was to punish me, sometimes it was to punish my mother, and sometimes it was both while simultaneously pleasuring himself. I hated him to my core, he had stolen what innocence I had and left me with more mental and emotional scars than he ever would physical scars.
Looks like you'll drink Milwaukee’s Best just fine to me.
The f*ck you say to me you little sh*t?
Before I could answer he threw the can at my head. I tried to duck, but the can flew faster than expected, and it smashed into my head. The impact knocked me off of my small stole and into the stereo. The impact of my fall knocked the stereo off of the small table to the floor. The stereo hits with a thud and the CD tray pops open sending the CD sliding across the floor. I watched this all as if in slow motion and something about seeing the stereo broken on the floor snapped something inside of me.
In hindsight, it wasn't the breaking of the stereo, for he had done much worse to me. It was however the straw that broke the camel's back as the saying goes. It was the slight brush that sent me over the edge.
I jumped to my feet and charged the man, releasing a scream of rage, as I did so. But he was much larger and older than me, he was the alpha male of the jungle in which I lived. He caught me with an uppercut to the jaw that dropped me to my back. I rolled on the floor in pain as the male walked over and picked up the boombox.
You be listening to this depressing a$s white boy music, no wonder you are such a pu$sy. Your momma tries to say it's because you ain't got a daddy. Well, I damn sure ain't gonna be your daddy, but I'm gonna make a man out of you one way or another.
He slammed the boombox down on the ground as hard as he could, shattering the boombox into numerous pieces. I had gotten on all fours and saw an opening. Again I charged like a fool in anger and ran my shoulder into his stomach. He bent over, grabbed me around the waist, and used my momentum against me. He flung me like a rag doll, trying to send me into the wall but missed, and I went head first through my bedroom window. I flew through the window and landed on the roof of my front porch, but the momentum continued to carry me and I rolled off the porch and landed on the cold, hard ground.
Drifting in and out of consciousness I could feel a warm liquid on my forearm running down my hand and dripping from his fingers. My eyes were slowly blinking through my heavy eyelids, as I looked at my right forearm and saw a shard of glass from the window sticking out of it, and blood pouring down my arm. I made no sound as the heaviness of my eyes overcame me and the world became a little dark. Now I find myself staring at the scar on my arm, and then back at him through the window.
My privacy is raked
And yet I find
And yet I find
Repeating in my head
If I can't be my own
I'd feel better dead
The door of the bedroom flew open and there stood the bare-chested African American man, whom I now watched through the window. Then he was in his physical prime, wearing only a pair of Cleveland Browns sweatpants and black house shoes. In one hand he holds a can of Milwaukee's best, and in the other a leather belt
It wasn't the first time he had come into my room. On some occasions it was to punish me, sometimes it was to punish my mother, and sometimes it was both while simultaneously pleasuring himself. I hated him to my core, he had stolen what innocence I had and left me with more mental and emotional scars than he ever would physical scars.
Looks like you'll drink Milwaukee’s Best just fine to me.
The f*ck you say to me you little sh*t?
Before I could answer he threw the can at my head. I tried to duck, but the can flew faster than expected, and it smashed into my head. The impact knocked me off of my small stole and into the stereo. The impact of my fall knocked the stereo off of the small table to the floor. The stereo hits with a thud and the CD tray pops open sending the CD sliding across the floor. I watched this all as if in slow motion and something about seeing the stereo broken on the floor snapped something inside of me.
In hindsight, it wasn't the breaking of the stereo, for he had done much worse to me. It was however the straw that broke the camel's back as the saying goes. It was the slight brush that sent me over the edge.
I jumped to my feet and charged the man, releasing a scream of rage, as I did so. But he was much larger and older than me, he was the alpha male of the jungle in which I lived. He caught me with an uppercut to the jaw that dropped me to my back. I rolled on the floor in pain as the male walked over and picked up the boombox.
You be listening to this depressing a$s white boy music, no wonder you are such a pu$sy. Your momma tries to say it's because you ain't got a daddy. Well, I damn sure ain't gonna be your daddy, but I'm gonna make a man out of you one way or another.
He slammed the boombox down on the ground as hard as he could, shattering the boombox into numerous pieces. I had gotten on all fours and saw an opening. Again I charged like a fool in anger and ran my shoulder into his stomach. He bent over, grabbed me around the waist, and used my momentum against me. He flung me like a rag doll, trying to send me into the wall but missed, and I went head first through my bedroom window. I flew through the window and landed on the roof of my front porch, but the momentum continued to carry me and I rolled off the porch and landed on the cold, hard ground.
Drifting in and out of consciousness I could feel a warm liquid on my forearm running down my hand and dripping from his fingers. My eyes were slowly blinking through my heavy eyelids, as I looked at my right forearm and saw a shard of glass from the window sticking out of it, and blood pouring down my arm. I made no sound as the heaviness of my eyes overcame me and the world became a little dark. Now I find myself staring at the scar on my arm, and then back at him through the window.
I know Harmon thinks he has the market cornered on hard childhoods and violent pasts, but I am the living-dead proof that the world is pure sh*t. It eats up and spits out everyone who is unfortunate enough to get in its way, the same way I am going to eat you up and spit you out, Harmon.
Pain, suffering, and misery are not mutually exclusive to any one person. Quite the contrary, they actually love company, but so do evil and evil men. Broken, no good, evil bastards like you and I have a way of finding each other. Like moths drawn to a flame, evil men are drawn to one another. Look at you and your brotherhood, rotten, no good, bastards, the whole lot of you.
While I am rotten, far worse than no good, and like yourself, the legitimate definition of a bastard, I am different from you and your brethren. Just as with anything there are different levels to this, different shades of darkness. While you and your brothers are pissing on women, bashing old gay men, and toying with weak naturalists, ecomancer, green mages, I am bringing hell to Earth.
The flames of that hell will consume you Harmon, and all your bastard buddies too. When the darkest of heart, mind, and soul swallows you whole, there will be nothing left but your bones and scraps. The bones and scraps I will use to forge my new OCW Craze championship with.
I moved around to the rear of the small shack of a home. The outdoor light is burnt out making slipping in undetected even easier. I knew there would be no alarm on the door, he simply couldn't afford one, so I jimmied the door open with my knife and slipped inside. For a large man I can move quietly, and I do so as I slip through the small kitchen and into the living room where he sits watching television. I grab the cord for his oxygen tank and crumple it in my hand cutting off his supply chain of oxygen. Almost instantly He begins coughing and wheezing, before turning in his chair to check on his hose.
As he turns his face instantly changes from anger to shock and fear as he sees me standing in his living room. Before he can scream my hand is around his throat crushing his frail vocal cords in my palm. I lift his body with ease, removing him from his chair and slamming him onto his living room floor. The impact shakes the old house, as dust and photos fall from the walls.
I notice a photo that lands on the floor, a couple young enough for one of them to be his children, and with them a kid young enough to be his grandchild. I release his throat, and he curls into the fetal position and begins coughing. I lift the photo from the ground and begin studying it. I wonder which one is his. I wonder if he affected and infected their life the way he did mine.
Through his coughs, he asks, “who the f**k are you motherf**ker?”.
Without looking at him I ask, “who are these people?”.
GO F**K YOURSELF!
I turn and place a hard kick to his chest, the force of which must have broken his old and weak ribs. I grab him by what is left of his balding hair and pull him to a seated position. Without asking again, I slap him across the face with the frame causing the glass to shatter and cut his face in multiple places. He falls to the ground, and the only sound he makes now is the moans of pain.
Which one is yours?
His moans of pain turn to tears and sobbing. I do not know if they are of pain, fear, or a combination of both, and I couldn’t care less which they are. I shove him onto his back with my boot and kneel on his chest. I grab his arm and pull his hand close to me, and that is when he notices the scar on my forearm.
Solomon?
I give no answer, but he knows it is me, and he knows why I am here.
I thought you died.
I did.
I grab a shard of the broken glass and shove it under the fingernail of his index finger. His whales of pain are like music to my ears. After shoving the shard of glass completely inside his flesh I grab his face, closing his mouth and drawing his attention back to me.
Tell me which one is yours and where they are, if you do, I’ll end this quickly.
Tears roll down his face, and I remove my hand.
Why?
Because I am going to do to them what you did to me.
NO! NO! MOTHERF**KER NO!
I silence him again. He is too weak to withstand what I am about to do to him. He will either tell me, or he’ll die of a massive heart attack from the torture. Either way, he is going to die here tonight, the only question is how much revenge I will be able to enact before he does.
I grab his sweatpants and rip them off of his body, leaving his lower half stripped bare and exposed. He sits up, trying to fight back, grabbing at my leg, but a single backhand puts him down again. I walk back to the kitchen and find a broom. I let him watch me snap the broom handle across my leg before throwing the end with the broom hand down.
AH NO! F**K NO! I’M SORRY! I’M SO SORRY! I’VE CHANGED! IT WAS THE DRUGS! PLEASE NO! PLEASE, I’VE CHANGED.
I smile before slapping him across the face with the handle. He falls to the ground, his body twisting as he does, causing him to land on his face. I kneel down with my knee on his back and lean into him to speak in his ear.
I’ve changed too. I am no longer that weak little boy you so easily dominated, tortured, and preyed upon. Now you are the prey, and I am the predator. I am not a malnourished, scrawny kid anymore. I AM THE DEATH DEALER, AND I HAVE BROUGHT HELL WITH ME!
I begin to exact my revenge and let his screams of pain and suffering serenade me.
Pain, suffering, and misery are not mutually exclusive to any one person. Quite the contrary, they actually love company, but so do evil and evil men. Broken, no good, evil bastards like you and I have a way of finding each other. Like moths drawn to a flame, evil men are drawn to one another. Look at you and your brotherhood, rotten, no good, bastards, the whole lot of you.
While I am rotten, far worse than no good, and like yourself, the legitimate definition of a bastard, I am different from you and your brethren. Just as with anything there are different levels to this, different shades of darkness. While you and your brothers are pissing on women, bashing old gay men, and toying with weak naturalists, ecomancer, green mages, I am bringing hell to Earth.
The flames of that hell will consume you Harmon, and all your bastard buddies too. When the darkest of heart, mind, and soul swallows you whole, there will be nothing left but your bones and scraps. The bones and scraps I will use to forge my new OCW Craze championship with.
I moved around to the rear of the small shack of a home. The outdoor light is burnt out making slipping in undetected even easier. I knew there would be no alarm on the door, he simply couldn't afford one, so I jimmied the door open with my knife and slipped inside. For a large man I can move quietly, and I do so as I slip through the small kitchen and into the living room where he sits watching television. I grab the cord for his oxygen tank and crumple it in my hand cutting off his supply chain of oxygen. Almost instantly He begins coughing and wheezing, before turning in his chair to check on his hose.
As he turns his face instantly changes from anger to shock and fear as he sees me standing in his living room. Before he can scream my hand is around his throat crushing his frail vocal cords in my palm. I lift his body with ease, removing him from his chair and slamming him onto his living room floor. The impact shakes the old house, as dust and photos fall from the walls.
I notice a photo that lands on the floor, a couple young enough for one of them to be his children, and with them a kid young enough to be his grandchild. I release his throat, and he curls into the fetal position and begins coughing. I lift the photo from the ground and begin studying it. I wonder which one is his. I wonder if he affected and infected their life the way he did mine.
Through his coughs, he asks, “who the f**k are you motherf**ker?”.
Without looking at him I ask, “who are these people?”.
GO F**K YOURSELF!
I turn and place a hard kick to his chest, the force of which must have broken his old and weak ribs. I grab him by what is left of his balding hair and pull him to a seated position. Without asking again, I slap him across the face with the frame causing the glass to shatter and cut his face in multiple places. He falls to the ground, and the only sound he makes now is the moans of pain.
Which one is yours?
His moans of pain turn to tears and sobbing. I do not know if they are of pain, fear, or a combination of both, and I couldn’t care less which they are. I shove him onto his back with my boot and kneel on his chest. I grab his arm and pull his hand close to me, and that is when he notices the scar on my forearm.
Solomon?
I give no answer, but he knows it is me, and he knows why I am here.
I thought you died.
I did.
I grab a shard of the broken glass and shove it under the fingernail of his index finger. His whales of pain are like music to my ears. After shoving the shard of glass completely inside his flesh I grab his face, closing his mouth and drawing his attention back to me.
Tell me which one is yours and where they are, if you do, I’ll end this quickly.
Tears roll down his face, and I remove my hand.
Why?
Because I am going to do to them what you did to me.
NO! NO! MOTHERF**KER NO!
I silence him again. He is too weak to withstand what I am about to do to him. He will either tell me, or he’ll die of a massive heart attack from the torture. Either way, he is going to die here tonight, the only question is how much revenge I will be able to enact before he does.
I grab his sweatpants and rip them off of his body, leaving his lower half stripped bare and exposed. He sits up, trying to fight back, grabbing at my leg, but a single backhand puts him down again. I walk back to the kitchen and find a broom. I let him watch me snap the broom handle across my leg before throwing the end with the broom hand down.
AH NO! F**K NO! I’M SORRY! I’M SO SORRY! I’VE CHANGED! IT WAS THE DRUGS! PLEASE NO! PLEASE, I’VE CHANGED.
I smile before slapping him across the face with the handle. He falls to the ground, his body twisting as he does, causing him to land on his face. I kneel down with my knee on his back and lean into him to speak in his ear.
I’ve changed too. I am no longer that weak little boy you so easily dominated, tortured, and preyed upon. Now you are the prey, and I am the predator. I am not a malnourished, scrawny kid anymore. I AM THE DEATH DEALER, AND I HAVE BROUGHT HELL WITH ME!
I begin to exact my revenge and let his screams of pain and suffering serenade me.