Daddy - 6/15/2001

This was written a long time ago by Spazzboy. A bit of.... fiction..... appropriate to this week's theme.

Do you have a special place that you went to as a child, which still means a lot to you? Do you ever go back to visit?

---

Mother, please forgive me. I just had to get out all my pain and suffering.

Now that I am done, remember I will always love you; I'm your son.



He looks up briefly, grabbing the remote and switching the volume higher on the stereo. Last, and what he considers second if not the best (it's a tie, really) on the album, and it deserves the appropriate volume level. The other really good one is number 7, but we're past that already. Mom's not home, again, so he's nothing to worry about. She hates this song. She won't be home 'til tomorrow morning at the earliest, and he'll be passed out by then, guaranteed. She'd only stay long enough to get ready for work anyway. Dropping the control on the trunk/make-shift table, his caramel eyes shine as they drop back to the syringe once more, filled with liquid heaven, or at least a semi reasonable facsimile, besides, it's pretty cheap shit. Not quite the pure snowy white pre-product one enjoys best, but it will do on such short notice.



Little child, looking so pretty,

come out and play, I'll be your Daddy.

Innocent child, looking so sweet,

I rape your mind, and now your flesh I reap.



Popping open another beer mom keeps on hand for the occasional boyfriend that makes it to the house, he stands, pulling shirt off over his head before taking a quick swig, leaving him in just his baggy black cargo's. Having been drinking for some time now, sinking back to the beat up old couch is no problem at all as he lets gravity take over in convenient display of duty. Reaching forward he grabs the eyeglass (second one, thanks to that fucker) case and re-packs everything except the syringe (cleanest way) and rubber strap (cause shoelaces suck) - always pays to be neat and tidy, especially when you've been caught before. Then, for economy of movement, reclaims the warming can to bolt back quite a few good sized swigs of whatever the hell kind of swill this is. Leaning back, he wraps the straps around his left arm just over the bicep, right where Brian said he'd help pay for another tat, letting the excuse of lighting a cigarette induce the movements needed to pop the vein.



You raped. I feel dirty.

It hurt. As a child.

Tied down. "That's a good boy."

And fuck. Your own child.

I scream. No one hears me.

It hurt. Not a lot.

My God. Saw you watch.

Mommy, why? Your own child.



Listening, his brow furrows as the words sink through. Skin puckering under the shiny needle he hits the plunger faster than he should, and knows it, brow furrowing farther as the tiny hiss escapes from the jail of his teeth. Fuck that hurts sometimes, but doesn't burn as much as snorting it does. Tossing everything on the trunk/table, he leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head and just lets himself melt into the couch during limbo.



Little child, looking so pretty,

come out and play, I'll be your Daddy.

His head tilts to the left as the first wave hits, shoulders hunching as he feels the first cold fingers of adrenaline prick hold. Jaw dropping a little as his breath quickens, between the beats coming from the double speakers he can hear his heart rate begin to rise. Grabbing the pack en route, he steps from the couch over to the bed, the movement hitched by a limp in his right leg. Knee catching just before full extension, caused by residual scar tissue. It'll go away soon enough, just need to get used to it. Flopping onto the thick comforter his eyes wander out the window just to his right, seeing what he can of the stars through the halo of the city.

You raped. I feel dirty.

It hurt. As a child.

Tied down. "That's a good boy."

And fuck. Your own child.

I scream. No one hears me.

It hurt. Not a lot.

My God. Saw you watch.



Quietly, he lays there, his brain going 130 mph through the corridors of memories. Passing the shut, locked doors. Keys thrown away and hopefully forgotten. Pace quickening past the final few until he's out in the open again. In his field with the stars shining brightly overhead in a warm, dark canopy. Here's where he comes a lot, to be by himself - not like he's not left alone enough by his mom - but here nothing can touch him. He can run fast and far as he can, knowing nothing's chasing him.



Mommy, why?



The phrase continues to send a chill through him, no matter when, where, or how he hears it. Years later it evokes the same reaction it always has, and back in his house a tear glistens in his eye. Angrily shoved away in the determination of youth, his mind fast-forwarding across the field.



It's alright



The words bring no comfort, they never do. Not anymore. Not after… he lights another cigarette and burns the thought away in its flame, his body shivering, quivering softly against the blankets. It's reaction a combination of drug and mind, he just thinks it's the cold wind against his face as he runs.



"I didn't touch you there."

Mommy said she didn't care.

"I didn't touch you there."

That's why Mommy stopped and stared.



Sweat shines across his brow, eyes tightly closed, blocking everything out, smoking the cigarette out of reflex 'til he jams it out in the tray, running, screaming away from this world heading to that dark shadowy place across the field. That's his escape, that's the maze he found where no one else can touch him. Not his mom, not Brian, not even the damn shrinks, judges and prosecutors. Too bad they wouldn't let him go there that one time. They made him stay in the bright lights and the strange places and smells. All he wanted to do was withdraw and take Brian with him. They made him tell the tale over and over and over again. Remember every little detail, tell it time and time again to make sure he wasn't lying, and that all his stories matcher. Mother fuckers. All he needed was that safe dark harbor.



Innocent child, looking so sweet,

I rape your mind, and now your flesh I reap.



It's there he can hide. He can hide for however long it takes. He's been there many times before.



You raped. I feel dirty.

It hurt. As a child.

Tied down. "That's a good boy."

And fuck. Your own child.

I scream. No-one hears me.

It hurt. Not a lot.

My God. Saw you watch.



Over and over again he silently mumbles the words along with the ones screaming out from the speakers. Mom hates this song, for good reason, they both never talk about this, his brother won't either. It's the reason she's always out, sure that he's finally safe, alone. Trying to distract herself from bad memories, screwed up kids and a failed marriage. Big mistakes she made. She didn't believe him back then. She does now. She has to forgive herself before she can even begin to ask for his. Thinking that maybe somewhere out there in a bar with some new boyfriend is the answer to all her problems. She's still young, she can bounce back, right? And he doesn't care, he's happy to be left to his own vices, to handle things by himself. That's how it had to be done before, he can do it again this time. Liquid heaven always helps. The words keep forming on his lips as he slips into that dark drug-induced void and finally, finally stills, unknown tears crusting on his cheeks.



Mommy, why?

---

The song is KORN's Daddy off the Self Titled Album.