Hi Folks. This one is a little darker than normal and a little bit violent. So those of you who like your stories bright and shiny might want to pass on it. Thanks again to the legendary Barney-R for making my gibberish readable. This is the A version of the story. It was written the way I always intended the story to go. If you don't like it don't worry the next one will be comepletely different. SS06
Most people don't remember much of their lives before they were seven or eight. I can remember almost every detail of my life from the age of four on. I'm particularly fond of the years when I was four and five. The memories are particularly vivid fifteen years later. I cherish them and guard them like jewels, sharing them with no one. After all they're all I have to call my own.
I drop to the floor and crank out twenty-five perfect pushups. Rising I do twenty-five squats. The mini workout takes me all of two minutes to complete. I'm constantly doing little workouts whenever I have time. I must become stronger.
I can hear the sounds of people; walking, talking and doing other things that normal people do only a few yards away from me. I hear his honeyed tones talking to them. He sounds so nice, so compassionate. He sounds like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. If only they knew him as I do.
I peeked out the door and saw the line of people filing out the door getting smaller and smaller. Somehow the organist always managed to be the last one. The fifty-something, bird-like woman smiled up at him through her gigantic glasses as he slipped a small roll of bills into her hand, unobtrusively.
As she tried to engage him in conversation, he promised to call her later and closed the door behind her, locking it securely. His mask was beginning to fade. He leaned with his back against the door, as if reflecting on what had just occurred. I slipped through the door into the church and began sweeping the floor. Only scant seconds had passed since he closed the door.
"Why the fuck does it take you so God damned long to start cleaning?" he bellowed.
"I'm sorry," I said. I said it very loudly and very clearly.
"Stop that God damned mumbling," he spat. He looked at me as if he was analyzing the way I swept. "Why the fuck are you using diagonal strokes to sweep?" he asked angrily.
"Because you said that straight left to right strokes damaged the floor and you beat me for using them, sir?" I said. "You also told me that straight back to front strokes looked queer and God doesn't like them. So you beat me."
"That doesn't mean that it's okay to use fucking diagonal strokes," he said. He reached up with his arms so fast that I almost couldn't see them. His left arm grabbed me around my throat choking me. His right arm punched me in the face so hard that my head snapped back and I fell to the floor.
"The Lord hates stupidity and stupid people," he screamed as he gleefully kicked me in my side. "The Lord hates people who don't take pride in their work and do a good job!" Pain shot through me with each kick and my own anger grew. And then suddenly, fifteen years of torture and abuse ... ended. As he reached to kick me yet again, I rolled away from him.
For the last two years I'd been doing pushups, sit ups, squats and any other exercise that I could think of, any chance I got. He was older and bigger than I was. But I was younger and stronger and more determined. I grabbed his descending foot, caught it in my hands, and twisted it, spilling him to the floor beside me.
He was so shocked that he couldn't find the words to express it. He raised his hands to strike me again. And he had mayhem in his eyes. I rolled on top of him and grabbed both of his hands in mine. I put my knees over his torso and forced his arms above his head. He sputtered in frustration. He tried to move his arms, but as I've mentioned, I've been working out a lot. Meanwhile he's been lying back on his fat old ass eating bonbons, and cupcakes.
My strength, fueled by the built up anger from over a decade of abuse overwhelmed his. I held his hands down with only one of mine and then for the first time in my life. I hit him back. The punch was solid. His head bounced uselessly off of the hardwood floor. He tried to scream but it came out as a short gurgling sound. My anger grew and I punched him again and again. As he tried to get up, I continued to punch him. When he tried to shake me off, I continued to hit him. My fist glanced off of his blood slicked face, but I continued to hit him. His resistance grew more and futile as it weakened because, I CONTINUED TO HIT HIM. I continued to hit him until he stopped moving and beyond that. Long after he lost consciousness, I continued to hit him.
I hit him in the mouth. I hit him in the jaw. I hit him in the nose, the eye and on his chin. I punched him in the eye and then turned his other cheek to make Jesus proud of him. Bones snapped, blood flowed, cartilage gave way, but I continued to hit him. I only stopped when I could no longer move my arms. Then I stood up and started to kick him.
Every so often, he groaned and then renewed by anger, I would increase my efforts. Anyone walking into the small southern church at that moment would have seen me and sworn that I was a monster.
They would see only a large muscular twenty year old man beating the fuck out of a beloved small town southern preacher. His blood was all over me. It was on my face, my clothing, and the floor around where I continued pummeling him. It was on the wall beside us and on the back of the pews closest to us.
My knuckles were bruised and bloody and beginning to swell, but I didn't consider stopping. The pain from my injuries would be transitory. The pain the man I beat had caused me had been never ending.
At twenty years old, I hadn't been to school in the last fifteen years. I had no friends because no one had been allowed to know that I existed. I had been beaten severely for any and every slight infraction of his ever changing rules. Sometimes he changed the rules without telling me just so he could beat me. I had no actual knowledge of the passing of time. I only knew that sometimes, he'd spit at me, and tell me it was my birthday. Then two years ago, for no reason, he had awakened me in the middle of the night and blackened both of my eyes. He's split my lip, kicked me, and then just laughed at me as I cowered in the corner wondering how I could have done anything wrong while I was asleep.
"What did I do wrong sir?" I asked in a terrified voice.
"Nothing, Stupid," he sneered. "I was just curious. It's your birthday. You're eighteen today. You are now a full grown man. I just wanted to see if I could still kick your ass as easily as always or if I needed to get some sort of equalizer to keep you in line. But apparently getting older hasn't resulted in you growing a spine." And he laughed at me and turned off the lights, leaving me in darkness and pain.
That was when something in my mind shifted. That was when I realized that no one would ever rescue me. I had long since given up on my parents coming to rescue me. That was when I decided that if I were ever to get free, I'd have to do it myself. It was also the day that I decided to kill him.
It is said that every man has two faces. One he shows the world and one he shows only to those closest to him. HE had that down to a science. He showed the people of the town a mask. A mask of a gentle, soft spoken, kindly, backwoods preacher, who when moved could spit fire and brimstone with the fire and passion of a true believer. But when the townies went home and the mask came off, all that was left was the antichrist beneath. That was when the man I knew showed up. He was nasty. He was evil. He was abusive, vile, immoral, and he claimed, though I never believed it, to be my father.
It often shocked me that only seconds after delivering a sermon on tolerance and forgiveness, he would beat me unmercifully for sweeping in the wrong direction. Or the night after proclaiming that the parents of a gay boy had failed their child, he forced me to do things that were unnatural. But this bastard would never hurt anyone again. My last few blows felt more as if I was slamming my fist into a bloody towel than a person. The bone and flesh beneath my fists had been crushed and blended to the consistency of hamburger.
I looked down on him with no regrets for what I had done. For years he had considered me and proclaimed me to be less than human. Now I had proven him right. I rested both of my hands on the floor beside the body and wondered, what next? For so many years I had dreamed of some day getting free of him. I had dreamed of someday paying him back for the way he had terrorized me throughout my life. The problem was that now that I had my freedom, now that I could go anywhere I wanted and do anything I wanted ... I just didn't know what I wanted.
Three p.m. The clock was ticking. I had two hours before Buck would leave the plant. I gathered my things and said goodbye to my students. I think they liked having a teacher who cleared out of the classroom before they did.
As I hit the parking lot, I covered my long dark brown hair with a scarf. Once inside of my car, I put on large dark sunglasses. I left the parking lot, driving not towards my beautiful home on the north side of town, but towards the east side.
.... There is more of this story ...