Suzie’s House 354 : The Urge to Kill

It bugged him; what Bruce said about how his dad might have killed his mom. Gene tried to laugh it off, but he couldn’t quite fool himself. Even when he and Bruce sat around talking in the park for a while, Gene thought about it. He was still thinking about it when he started to walk home.

The thing was, it might be true.

His dad might have done it on accident. He like to come out swinging at anyone, not just Gene. Although Gene was only five when his mother disappeared, he remembered something about her having a few broken bones herself.

He meant to go home – home to Mrs. H’s house. But instead he went to the old house where he used to live with his father.

Sure enough the old man lay in a pile of filth in the livingroom. There were so many empty cans and bottles and pizza boxes and just plane junk that you couldn’t even tell there was a nubby gray couch under the mound of flesh.

There was a time when Gene had to fish through this stuff for anything edible. He got adept at running in and out of his room, looking for anything that would stop the constant hunger but wouldn’t put him on his knees in front of the toilet.

“Hey Dad!” Gene gave his father a shove. “I gotta ask you something.”

The old man groaned, belched, then rolled over. The sound of tin cans and cardboard getting squashed under him seemed louder than Gene remembered. Had it really only been about a year since Gene ran away from home?

“Wake up!” Gene yanked the coffee table out of the way. And avalanche of trash hit the floor. “Dad! Wake up.”

“Whu?” The fat slob blinked and stared with the owl-eyed vagueness of a drunkard.

“How many days in a row have you been drinking?”

“Huh? Math? I don’t,” he stopped to belch. “I don’t do math.”

“Looks to me like you don’t do much of anything. Wake up, old man. I got something to ask you.”

“Wha? Who’s, who’s talking?”

“It’s me, Dad.” Gene bent over and put his face right up to his father’s. They were close enough for the alcohol fumes to make Gene’s nose hair curl. He backed off fast.

“Oh! Gene! Best thing I ever did, having you. Best thing. Everything else is all right ‘cause there’s you.” He nodded with satisfaction.

Gene clinched his fist, and fought the urge to punch the old man. Best thing? Could have fooled him. When had his father ever treated him well? When the old man wasn’t hitting, he was belittling, or coming up with bizarre schemes to control Gene. If this was love, then love must be a twisted and ugly thing.

“Dad, did you kill mom?”

“Hah! You mother? She’s never ever coming back to get you. No matter what. She abandoned you. You and me both.”

“Did you kill her?”

“I took her to the bus station, just like she asked.”

“She didn’t ask you to take her to the bus station. You grabbed her arm and shoved her out the door.” Gene wasn’t entirely sure he remembered this correctly. He was only guessing.

“Well yeah. She was going to take you with her. Couldn’t have that. Bitch didn’t deserve to live. Threatening to take away the only good thing I ever did with my life.”

“Did you kill her?”

“Course not. Gators got her. Heh-heh.” The old man grinned in a sloppy, head-weaving way.

“So she’s dead?”

“So what if she is? Got what she deserved. She even took her clothes off for me before I hit her. I’ve got them somewhere around here.” He started touching the top surface of the trash around him as if clothing he’d taken over ten years before might be there.

“You really did do it.” Gene’s legs wobbled under him.

All the strength washed out of him. If there’d been a place to sit, he’d have collapsed. Instead he put one hand on the wall to brace himself up. He felt sick to his stomach.

“Son. I just did what I had to.” The old man reached for him.

Gene slapped the hand away. “You bstrd! Mom was the only good thing in my life! How could you take that away from me?”

His father tried to grab his hand again, and Gene lost it. All those years of fear and loneliness welled up inside him at once. His father’s gut felt doughy and soft under his fists. The man’s skull felt hard. Each punch brought it’s own kind of sick satisfaction. Was this why his father did it?

Once Gene got started, it was hard to make himself stop. The drunkard tried to curl up and protect himself with his hands and arms, but didn’t fight back. Gene didn’t care. He wailed on the man until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He tore himself away and ran.

Gene stepped in something viscous and smelly as he let himself out. He didn’t want to think about what it might be. He just wanted out.

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