Silique,
by Rewired,
(a long fucking time ago,
around the time he first
went insane).
Mom had always said to keep you by my side, watch you closely and keep you from harm. I took that to heart. I found it to be my personal responsibility to keep you under control all throughout our childhood. That’s why this kills me so much. I can still remember it as clear and vivid as if it had happened yesterday.
I was about seven and you were three, and we'd gone off on that camping trip down to see grandma and grandpa in their cabin by Lake Silique. It was a beautiful cabin, and I loved to sit atop the hill some way from the cabin and watch the sun dive far below the mountains. When I could pull myself out of bed early enough, I'd watch it rise from that perspective as well. I loved the way the mist rose from the waters in early morning; I loved the ducks, fun and playful by the pond, and the geese, arrogant and aggressive by the willow trees.
Mom had never stopped bitching. Even when I escaped her presence, the echoes of her sharp tongue and wicked words echoed endlessly in my skull.
I didn't want to watch you on the dock and fish that morning, I wanted to leave. I wanted to go off by myself and think in the forest. Mom ruined that morning for me, as she had so many mornings -- as she had ruined so many moments in my childhood.
I left you a few paces away from the garage as I slowly walked inside. Pop was under grandpa’s car as grandpa leaned on it, listening to the AM radio fading in and fading out, whatever the announcer was talking about barely comprehensible, as he drank from a bottle of Jack Daniels. I didn’t talk to either one of them; I went about looking for the toolbox.
“Boy!” Grandpa yelled at the sight of me, nearly toppling over a barrel as he pointed with the hand in which he held his bottle.
“What’s that?” My father said from under the car. He was always under the car every time we came down to the cabin. He did it so often that within the two weeks we usually spent there I often forgot what his face looked like. I often wondered what it was he did under there, or got accomplished under there.
“Nothin’,” he said to my father, and then turned to me, talking in a softer tone. “Heard cher mother yellin’ atcha again,” grandpa said. “I’nt that what she was doin’, boy?”
“Yes, grandpa,” I said to him.
“Whatcha lookin’ for, anyway?”
“Toolbox,” I said. “She wants me and sis to go fishing on the dock.”
He laughed. He laughed a little too loud, and a little too long, for something that, at least to me, didn’t seem funny at all. When he caught a breath he said. “You ain’t gonna catch a fuckin’ minnow on dat dock. Shit!”
Reaching from the shelf above him, he brought down an old, greasy, rusty, and dusty toolbox. He handed it to me, like he was handing me something of notable emotional worth, age, and monetary value – but keep in mind he was also completely, inexcusably, an irrevocably shit-faced. “That used to be your father’s fishin’ box when he was a boy. Kinda yer birthright, right, boy?” Then he exploded into another fit of insane laughter.
“Thanks, gramps.” I said to him carefully, and then walked away.
“You go an’ fish now!” He yelled with a smile as I walked away from the garage and towards the dock, taking you by the arm. I wasn’t that far away, though I was walking at a fast pace for what should be clear reasons. “We’ll go put up the tent for you kids later, all right? Once we shoot the shit a bit more and get a few more of these babies in us, `kay, kiddo? We’ll get the tent up for ya, though -- be sure about that.”
Grandpa said that he’d put up the tent that he had in the attic about every time we’d gone down there. The first few times he said it, I got excited, only to be let down later. It may have been very true what he’d said – about when he’d put up the tent for the two of us – but they never did stop `shooting the shit’ and his concept of a `few more’ bottles of booze seemed incomprehensibly large.
Down at the dock I took a minute to look at the sun as it shone down on the lake. I put down the toolbox and two fishing lines and sighed. I began to fiddle with my fishing rod, but the hook was bent.
“Fishies fishies fishies!” You screamed as you hopped up and down.
“We’ve got to find some pliers or something, or maybe a new hook,” I said aloud, as I reached for the toolbox and opened it.
That’s when I saw it. That’s when we both saw in there amidst the discolored bobbers, rubber worms and hooks: that handgun shimmering in the sunlight. I dug it out and examined it. I found it to be a very interesting and peculiar contraption. I’d never seen a gun up close before.
You wanted to see it, but I told you to stop. You were on the verge of a tantrum again, and in your anger you grabbed for the barrel and tugged hard to have it for yourself. My finger had been on the trigger.
I often wonder why it was in the tackle box, or why it was loaded. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. If I was told, if the reason ever was discovered or known by anyone, I don’t remember.
What I do remember is this: a high pitched scream. I remember it loosing volume and then cut off as it was consumed in a splash.
I remember red.
I watched as you fell off the dock and into the lake like a lifeless rag doll. Water hit me where your blood hadn't, and I fell to my knees, mouth open, eyes wide, unable to grasp the reality of the event that had just transpired.
I was there, paralyzed, a gun in my hand. I looked at you – my sister, floating in the water, her dress encircling her head as if it was the center of a beautiful flower. A duck swam by and quacked at me, only pausing a moment to glance at your corpse and the hole in your head that made the waters red.
When I could finally move, when I had finally regained control over my body, I screamed. I screamed like a madman. I dropped the gun and took off. They didn’t seem to be putting up the tent, so it was just an excuse they’d told me in order to get me away and go watch my sister for awhile. I saw motion and light in the shed, and in the eerie twilight of the dawn I ran through the un-mown grass in that direction. I knew that they’d still be in the shed with grandpa, talking and drinking as dad worked on fixing grandpa’s classic car. Pop was hoping he'd receive that car when his old man kicked off.
Sure enough, that was were I had found them. Out of breath, and looking for words, I noticed that none of them had shown any signs of being aware of my sudden presence, even with the immense noise that came with the heaving of my tiny lungs. As dad and grandpa were gabbing underneath the car, mom stood by the open hood, hand on her hips, in that ugly blue dress. The stupid bitch.
"M... ma?" I said. She didn't even look at me. I said it again. And again. Finally, I screamed her name.
She spun around, her eyes like daggers stabbing my soul. "Cody, just what the fuck do you want?"
"I... " I tried to find the words, but I was at a loss.
Her glare deepened as she came upon a realization. A shallow one, at that. "Aren't you supposed to be watching your sister? Go watch your sister, or I'll beat you till you're red in the face."
"But ma, just listen -- " I was nearly in tears, but she punched me square in the face. Finally, she had turned to look at me! -- sure, with the aid of a fist, but it was progress.
She looked at me suddenly, confused and apparently disgusted at the sight of me. I looked down, and saw that I was covered in dirty water and stained with blood. Her eyes trailed from my face downward, and back up to my face. "What the hell were you doing?"
I didn't know what else to say. "I… I killed my sister. She's floating in the pond by the dock." I said it in an empathic tone. I could hear my voice stammer and studder and squeal, revealing my fear and confusion and guilt. It seemed to make the moment all the more terrifying -- all the more real.
She slapped me this time, harder than she had punched me. "Go watch your fucking sister, young man, and quit making up stories."
Then it came as if a calm revelation: there was only one thing left to do, I supposed. I don't know how the conclusion finally came to me, but in a comforting flash that distanced me from all hurt and gave me seeming superhuman strength it all seemed to make perfect sense.
I went back to the dock. I picked up the gun. I took a moment to look at it; to look at how it shined in the afternoon sun. I walked back to the shed, where everything was primarily the way it had been.
I breathed deep, and said again: "Hey, mom?"
She slowly turned to me. she had already raised her hand again for another strike, just like a moment ago, just like so many days before. Before her eyes even reached mine, she had prepared that scowl of anger and disapproval that I had for long grown used to. One could enrage her merely by bringing attention to his existence -- at least that’s how it worked when you were her son.
Her scowl only lasted a few moments before I saw the enlightening transformation on her face. For a split second I saw a bit of bewilderment and fear suddenly rushing into her brain as she realized I was holding a gun pointed straight at her chest.
A second later, she realized that I had fired.
As blood came pouring out of the gash in her chest, I felt a sense of release, and I imagined seeing through her eyes. I imagined as the world faded out and she was left in a black void, after which she would get ripped to shreds for an eternity in her own personal hell. The dark of her mind wrapping around her, smothering her, dragging her deeper into the hatred she could no longer express in the outer world -- for the outer world had been taken away from her.
I smiled.
"What was that?" Dad asked, from under the car.
I grinned. "Nothin', pop."
by Rewired,
(a long fucking time ago,
around the time he first
went insane).
Mom had always said to keep you by my side, watch you closely and keep you from harm. I took that to heart. I found it to be my personal responsibility to keep you under control all throughout our childhood. That’s why this kills me so much. I can still remember it as clear and vivid as if it had happened yesterday.
I was about seven and you were three, and we'd gone off on that camping trip down to see grandma and grandpa in their cabin by Lake Silique. It was a beautiful cabin, and I loved to sit atop the hill some way from the cabin and watch the sun dive far below the mountains. When I could pull myself out of bed early enough, I'd watch it rise from that perspective as well. I loved the way the mist rose from the waters in early morning; I loved the ducks, fun and playful by the pond, and the geese, arrogant and aggressive by the willow trees.
Mom had never stopped bitching. Even when I escaped her presence, the echoes of her sharp tongue and wicked words echoed endlessly in my skull.
I didn't want to watch you on the dock and fish that morning, I wanted to leave. I wanted to go off by myself and think in the forest. Mom ruined that morning for me, as she had so many mornings -- as she had ruined so many moments in my childhood.
I left you a few paces away from the garage as I slowly walked inside. Pop was under grandpa’s car as grandpa leaned on it, listening to the AM radio fading in and fading out, whatever the announcer was talking about barely comprehensible, as he drank from a bottle of Jack Daniels. I didn’t talk to either one of them; I went about looking for the toolbox.
“Boy!” Grandpa yelled at the sight of me, nearly toppling over a barrel as he pointed with the hand in which he held his bottle.
“What’s that?” My father said from under the car. He was always under the car every time we came down to the cabin. He did it so often that within the two weeks we usually spent there I often forgot what his face looked like. I often wondered what it was he did under there, or got accomplished under there.
“Nothin’,” he said to my father, and then turned to me, talking in a softer tone. “Heard cher mother yellin’ atcha again,” grandpa said. “I’nt that what she was doin’, boy?”
“Yes, grandpa,” I said to him.
“Whatcha lookin’ for, anyway?”
“Toolbox,” I said. “She wants me and sis to go fishing on the dock.”
He laughed. He laughed a little too loud, and a little too long, for something that, at least to me, didn’t seem funny at all. When he caught a breath he said. “You ain’t gonna catch a fuckin’ minnow on dat dock. Shit!”
Reaching from the shelf above him, he brought down an old, greasy, rusty, and dusty toolbox. He handed it to me, like he was handing me something of notable emotional worth, age, and monetary value – but keep in mind he was also completely, inexcusably, an irrevocably shit-faced. “That used to be your father’s fishin’ box when he was a boy. Kinda yer birthright, right, boy?” Then he exploded into another fit of insane laughter.
“Thanks, gramps.” I said to him carefully, and then walked away.
“You go an’ fish now!” He yelled with a smile as I walked away from the garage and towards the dock, taking you by the arm. I wasn’t that far away, though I was walking at a fast pace for what should be clear reasons. “We’ll go put up the tent for you kids later, all right? Once we shoot the shit a bit more and get a few more of these babies in us, `kay, kiddo? We’ll get the tent up for ya, though -- be sure about that.”
Grandpa said that he’d put up the tent that he had in the attic about every time we’d gone down there. The first few times he said it, I got excited, only to be let down later. It may have been very true what he’d said – about when he’d put up the tent for the two of us – but they never did stop `shooting the shit’ and his concept of a `few more’ bottles of booze seemed incomprehensibly large.
Down at the dock I took a minute to look at the sun as it shone down on the lake. I put down the toolbox and two fishing lines and sighed. I began to fiddle with my fishing rod, but the hook was bent.
“Fishies fishies fishies!” You screamed as you hopped up and down.
“We’ve got to find some pliers or something, or maybe a new hook,” I said aloud, as I reached for the toolbox and opened it.
That’s when I saw it. That’s when we both saw in there amidst the discolored bobbers, rubber worms and hooks: that handgun shimmering in the sunlight. I dug it out and examined it. I found it to be a very interesting and peculiar contraption. I’d never seen a gun up close before.
You wanted to see it, but I told you to stop. You were on the verge of a tantrum again, and in your anger you grabbed for the barrel and tugged hard to have it for yourself. My finger had been on the trigger.
I often wonder why it was in the tackle box, or why it was loaded. I didn’t know then and I don’t know now. If I was told, if the reason ever was discovered or known by anyone, I don’t remember.
What I do remember is this: a high pitched scream. I remember it loosing volume and then cut off as it was consumed in a splash.
I remember red.
I watched as you fell off the dock and into the lake like a lifeless rag doll. Water hit me where your blood hadn't, and I fell to my knees, mouth open, eyes wide, unable to grasp the reality of the event that had just transpired.
I was there, paralyzed, a gun in my hand. I looked at you – my sister, floating in the water, her dress encircling her head as if it was the center of a beautiful flower. A duck swam by and quacked at me, only pausing a moment to glance at your corpse and the hole in your head that made the waters red.
When I could finally move, when I had finally regained control over my body, I screamed. I screamed like a madman. I dropped the gun and took off. They didn’t seem to be putting up the tent, so it was just an excuse they’d told me in order to get me away and go watch my sister for awhile. I saw motion and light in the shed, and in the eerie twilight of the dawn I ran through the un-mown grass in that direction. I knew that they’d still be in the shed with grandpa, talking and drinking as dad worked on fixing grandpa’s classic car. Pop was hoping he'd receive that car when his old man kicked off.
Sure enough, that was were I had found them. Out of breath, and looking for words, I noticed that none of them had shown any signs of being aware of my sudden presence, even with the immense noise that came with the heaving of my tiny lungs. As dad and grandpa were gabbing underneath the car, mom stood by the open hood, hand on her hips, in that ugly blue dress. The stupid bitch.
"M... ma?" I said. She didn't even look at me. I said it again. And again. Finally, I screamed her name.
She spun around, her eyes like daggers stabbing my soul. "Cody, just what the fuck do you want?"
"I... " I tried to find the words, but I was at a loss.
Her glare deepened as she came upon a realization. A shallow one, at that. "Aren't you supposed to be watching your sister? Go watch your sister, or I'll beat you till you're red in the face."
"But ma, just listen -- " I was nearly in tears, but she punched me square in the face. Finally, she had turned to look at me! -- sure, with the aid of a fist, but it was progress.
She looked at me suddenly, confused and apparently disgusted at the sight of me. I looked down, and saw that I was covered in dirty water and stained with blood. Her eyes trailed from my face downward, and back up to my face. "What the hell were you doing?"
I didn't know what else to say. "I… I killed my sister. She's floating in the pond by the dock." I said it in an empathic tone. I could hear my voice stammer and studder and squeal, revealing my fear and confusion and guilt. It seemed to make the moment all the more terrifying -- all the more real.
She slapped me this time, harder than she had punched me. "Go watch your fucking sister, young man, and quit making up stories."
Then it came as if a calm revelation: there was only one thing left to do, I supposed. I don't know how the conclusion finally came to me, but in a comforting flash that distanced me from all hurt and gave me seeming superhuman strength it all seemed to make perfect sense.
I went back to the dock. I picked up the gun. I took a moment to look at it; to look at how it shined in the afternoon sun. I walked back to the shed, where everything was primarily the way it had been.
I breathed deep, and said again: "Hey, mom?"
She slowly turned to me. she had already raised her hand again for another strike, just like a moment ago, just like so many days before. Before her eyes even reached mine, she had prepared that scowl of anger and disapproval that I had for long grown used to. One could enrage her merely by bringing attention to his existence -- at least that’s how it worked when you were her son.
Her scowl only lasted a few moments before I saw the enlightening transformation on her face. For a split second I saw a bit of bewilderment and fear suddenly rushing into her brain as she realized I was holding a gun pointed straight at her chest.
A second later, she realized that I had fired.
As blood came pouring out of the gash in her chest, I felt a sense of release, and I imagined seeing through her eyes. I imagined as the world faded out and she was left in a black void, after which she would get ripped to shreds for an eternity in her own personal hell. The dark of her mind wrapping around her, smothering her, dragging her deeper into the hatred she could no longer express in the outer world -- for the outer world had been taken away from her.
I smiled.
"What was that?" Dad asked, from under the car.
I grinned. "Nothin', pop."
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