Deviation Actions
Literature Text
She did everything she could to keep me fed, clothed and in school; she worked two or three part-time jobs, sacrificing herself for me. I was raised on clothes from the thrift shop, Kraft Dinner and canned soup, and whatever novels my mother passed my way when she was done with them. We had a radio and a TV that maxed out at thirteen channels. Mum was good to me.
School was okay. For 12 years I was one of three students in the same class with the same first name who went to school together. For twelve years I was simply referred to as “D”, my last initial, by teachers and classmates.
It hurt. “D” wasn’t my name. The others weren’t letters. So, why was I?
I wasn’t popular. This could be because I was poor and came from a broken family. No one understood why I didn’t have new clothes, toys or games; divorce, disease or death hadn’t touched my classmates or their families until we were in high school. Even then, they didn’t understand.
Being twelve years old tends to change things.
Mum met someone when I was twelve. He took me fishing, camping, hiking; he was the outdoor type and we got along. When he moved in he brought his big TV, stereo and all this new stuff. For the first time, there was a computer in my house. Jim was a nice.
For about 6 months.
I was an avid puddle jumper when I was a kid and I was late getting home one day from school. As I was stripping off my soaked shoes and socks, I heard rushed stomping coming towards the backdoor. Pain shot up my ass as Jim kicked me into the backdoor, my forehead connecting with the door knob. Laying dazed on the floor he buried his heel into my neck and bellowed, “Your mother and I are tired of you tracking shit in the house!” When Mum got home from work, she didn’t ask about the lump on my head. She would’ve assumed I got in a fight at school and just left it at that; I had a big mouth and couldn’t finish the fights I started. Puddle jumping died that day.
Like flipping a switch.
Jim was cold and cruel. Tearing into whenever he got the chance. His torture lasting for months. Jim never laid hands on me when my mother around but always found a way to include her when he yelled or belittled me. His favorite taunt to start with was “Your mother always told me -” and you can add whatever insult you can think of to make a thirteen year old boy cry. But as careful as he was, Jim made a mistake one day. During a fit about how my vacuum lines weren’t straight enough, he tried to put my head through the wall. I didn’t go cleanly through drywall or hit a stud; Jim found out that there was a brick chimney that had been walled over.
Jim bolted.
My Mum found me unconscious where he dropped me. She got me to the hospital and was detained by police. Jim had called them.
My mountain began to show her cracks.
Once the police took my statement, Mum was released but would remain under close watch by social services. Jim left everything behind. His truck, his TV, his stereo, his cat. Everything. Mum was glad that he ran. I don’t know what she would’ve done if he had stuck around.
Mum never stopped apologizing.
As we changed the locks.
As we pulled up the blood stained carpet.
As tore down broken drywall.
As we repaired wall, primed and painted.
Even when the words never left her mouth, her eyes would never stopped saying sorry.
We worked together to rebuild our home and our lives. Mum only worked while I was at school; she was always home before I was. Things got tighter. Brand name soups turned to no name, Kraft Dinner switched over to bulk noodles and bulk cheese powder. Clothes had to dissolve in the wash before being replaced.
I never blamed Mum. Not once.
Revenge was surprisingly easy.
Mum sat me down about a year later. Jim called. He wanted his stuff.
We had packed it all away in the basement. Locked up his truck and parked it out back. Fed and cleaned up after his cat. I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t want him around. I didn’t like the way Mum looked when he started calling everyday. I couldn’t let her get suffer on my account, so I relented. “Tell him to come get it. We can put it outside, lock the doors and hope it rains.” Mum called Jim and made the arrangements for the following weekend, get it over and done with. On the appointed day, he came. It didn’t rain.
After loading his stuff into the truck he knocked on the door, “cat please.”
Mum searched the house top to bottom and couldn’t find Jim’s cat. The cat was gone. “Probably got out when we taking your stuff out side.” she tells Jim. With a shrug, he left.
Mum ordered pizza for dinner that night.
A special treat now that we were free.
Mum didn’t know.
The cat didn’t run away.
~Torture~
murderer
To fall to wither
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