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Send to FriendMy mother was not the warmest or most emotional woman that ever lived. I don't think she ever felt anything akin to an emotion at all...at least not that I would even vaguely remember. Perhaps at one time she might have been more enthusiastic and passionate about life. But that had been another time and in another world, either before I was born or at a time that I would've been too young to have remembered.
My only memory of her is the bland, listless woman constantly in a haze, frequently moving about in a disoriented manner. She would sometimes sit in the kitchen in a catatonic trance, staring blankly at the same spot on the wall, not looking for anything in particular, just spacing out completely. She'd sit there for hours at a time and nothing would bring her out of that state.
Even when mom wasn't in that trance, nothing fazed the woman. When I was thirteen, I would sometimes light up a cigarette right in front of her, puffing hard, with smoke jetting from my nose and mouth. And she would just stare at me, her eyes forever locked in that blank, glassy gaze of hers, looking right at the gray billows of smoke from my cigarette, and did absolutely nothing. Her eyes didn't rise. Her mouth didn't drop open. She didn't respond at all. When I was fifteen, I advanced to smoking pot in front of her and even that wasn't enough to draw any kind of reaction from dear old mom.
My older brother, Robert died at the age of eighteen in July 1969. I had been ten years of age at the time. And I honestly can't remember a damn thing about him. The first ten years of my life are a complete blur to me; probably due to my heavy drug use during my teens as well as the hundreds of blows I'd taken to the head as a child and teenager at the hands of my father. Essentially, that means that I can't remember the vaguest detail of Robert. Not what he looked like or what kind of person he was. Maybe he was a nice big brother, almost a mentor to the younger brother whom would have a great deal of respect and admiration for. Or perhaps he'd been nothing more than a bully who had made my life a living hell. I honestly haven't the slightest idea. The only thing I can remember is how I'd been filled with sorrow upon hearing of his death.
Robert had been drafted for Vietnam about two months prior to his death. I can remember the excitement I had felt when I found out that my brother would be among the brave and noble warriors fighting for his country against the evil threat of communism. It wasn't that I'd wished ill will on him. At that age, I didn't understand the brutal and horrendous consequences that war entails. All I had been exposed to was the sensationalism. The glorious depictions of the United States military against the Axis Powers in the great many of the old World War II movies. Thousands of stories of the battles my father had fought in during the time he'd served in the Second World War, which he told to me during the few, pleasant times when he wasn't drunk off his ass and beating me senseless. To me, Robert was a hero for serving in the Vietnam War. That's all I knew and that's all I cared about. Sure, I had caught a few loose snippets here and there on the news of the various protest rallies against the war and all the reasons why some people were so adamant about their antiwar stance. But I tuned all that crap out and instead focused on the more exciting and heroic elements of warfare.
I was absolutely convinced that Robert would come home alive and safe at some point in the future and that he would come home a hero as well. A part of me had anticipated the dreadful possibility of Robert's demise, but that never seemed to be a very plausible scenario. More like some kind of an eerie dream sequence:
Robert and his comrades battle against enemy troops. But things go awry. Robert takes a bullet to the frontal lobe and is killed instantly. It is then that his entire body convulses. Perhaps he cries out in terror. He would then awaken and be filled with a great sense of relief that he is lying in his own cot back at the base. He would be covered in cold sweat, his heart racing, his body shaking. But he would still be alive and eventually he would calm his frazzled nerves and all will be well once again.
When I found out that Robert finally had been killed, and that it was indeed real, I was absolutely devastated. I couldn't believe what I'd heard. For the longest time, I thought that this must surely be a dream sequence—not entirely unlike the one I'd envisioned Robert having—and that I would eventually wake up, perhaps to find Robert standing over me by the foot of the bed, having returned the night before as a hero awarded with a metal of honor. But as time went by, that belief faded. If this was a nightmare, was one pretty fucking long nightmare, and if I was going to awaken, most likely I would have already done so by now.
It was my mother whom had answered the door on the day we found out Rob was dead. I followed from a safe distance (being too close to my mom often gave me the creeps and I would break out into gooseflesh all over my body) out of childhood curiosity. Standing by the door had been the soldier sent to bring the bad news. I don't remember what he looked like or what he said his name had been. But I remember his solemn face and the sadness in his eyes as he told my mother of what had happened to Robert. "I'm really sorry about all of this, Mrs. Gordon..."
My mother didn't even flinch. It was as though everything that the soldier had told her had amounted merely to a pontification regarding the color of the sky. Most mothers in similar situations would've fallen into a state of utter and helpless hysteria. But mine seemed to feel nothing at all. Her only reaction had been the unmoved, pseudo-sympathetic phrase: "Oh, now ain’t that a shame." And that was the end of that.
Mom hadn't bothered to break the news to my father later that night; not because it was too hard or painful for her, but because the thought had never once crossed her mind that she should. Instead, the duty was mine. And to this day, telling my father of Robert's death was the hardest thing that I've ever had to do in my entire life. And he didn't even believe me. I guess I couldn't blame him; I didn't totally believe it myself. But I still insisted that I was telling the truth and he continued to rebuke everything I had said as childhood lunacy and eventually punched me in the face and gave me a bloody nose for “telling lies and making up foolish nonsense.” Needless to say, that shut me right up.
Later on, he found out from a more "reliable" source. The moment he found out the truth about Robert had been the only time that I had ever seen my father cry. I couldn't possibly bring myself to say I told you so at that moment; I just didn't have the heart. I didn't have the guts to do it either.
My father was never a man who readily showed emotion and under normal circumstances, crying would have been completely out of the question. This one time he had cried, he was no doubt deeply ashamed and disgusted with himself because of it later on, though shame hadn't been an emotion that he'd admit to experiencing either. Any trait or deed that he'd been "guilty" of that might bring him shame or make him appear weak to others was a trait or deed that he'd simply deny having anything to do with. And that's how he'd handled the whole crying affair as well. He wouldn't even mention his crying over his son's death to anyone, nor did he even talk about Robert at all after a while.
I made the horrible mistake of mentioning his bout of crying about a month later after Robert's death. Dad had been watching the evening news after a hard day of work on the farm and one of the reporters had been interviewing a man in his late forties who was in tears after having been notified by police that the body of his wife of eighteen years had been found raped and murdered, with her throat cut open, in the park earlier that morning.
My dad was never a warm, compassionate, sympathetic man and was the last person on earth who you should ever go to if you needed a shoulder to cry on. Watching that interview with the crying man who had been so filled with grief he couldn't even speak above his constant sobbing, and all you could hear out of him was his voice quivering in the microphone, I saw on my dad's face an expression of bitter disgust and contempt. "Nothin' I'd like better'n to go to that pathetic girlie man over there and beat 'im to a bloody pulp for that sickening display he's puttin' me through," my father grunted under his breath. "That'll give the whiny effeminate faggot somethin' to cry about."
I don't know why I said what I said next. I didn't particularly enjoy the sight of a grown man cry, and certain hadn’t intended to act in his defense. I guess it was just one of those insanely stupid things that kids do for the hell of it. Then again, do any of us really know why we do the things that we do? Anyway, this is no doubt the ultimate case of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and completely fucking everything up.
"But dad, didn't you cry when you found out that Robert died?"
And with that innocent but incredibly stupid remark, I had struck a raw nerve and completely demolished it and my father hit the roof. I was so severely beaten that when he finished, I was nothing more than a bloody mess lying over the carpet, completely unable to move. I never so much as uttered the name "Robert" in my father's presence again after that.
I guess in a lot of ways, anger was about the only emotion I ever saw in my dad. He was never scared, never sad, never embarrassed about anything; at least as far as I could see. Jealousy and hatred were clearly visible within his demeanor, but those are derivatives of anger and my dad flaunted the whole package as though it were the most prestigious badge of honor. In a lot of ways, I sometimes think they should’ve given him his own talk radio show, for he was constantly ranting to anyone who would listen about all that was currently wrong with the country, whether it be those filthy hippies at all the antiwar protest rallies, or those feminists, niggers, and race traitors that started the civil rights movements of that time. These were the two things that had vexed him most of all, yet even little things caught his ire, such as if his crops hadn’t been growing as well as they should have during a particular year, or if someone head even been slightly rude or said or did anything in which my father found even remotely offensive, even if the person hadn’t meant any harm from the gesture. The smallest things—such as the way someone laughed or even how they might have looked at him—set my father off, and my mother and I unwittingly provided him a bittersweet release from the anger that consumed his mind and soul and he was all too happy to heap his anger upon us through physical and emotional abuse.
That isn't to say that he derived no enjoyment from anything in life, because there were a lot of things that brought him pleasure, such as his farm and how proud he been of his hard work on his crops. He had a few bad years here and there, but they were always few and far between, and for the most part, he was very successful at raising and harvesting his crops. And my dad was well aware that he'd been good at what he did and he boasted his accomplishments every chance he got. He didn't need praise from others because he gave himself more than enough. But the approval he got from his friends helped to swell his ego that much more and he basked in every ounce of their approval. Nothing made my old man's day more than having everyone around him puckering up and kissing his ass.
He spent his nights in the city, in sleazy bars getting drunk off his ass, or in a strip club, enjoying lap dances and stuffing dollar bills down the exotic dancers' panties. From time to time, he might bring home a prostitute that he'd picked up from a street corner somewhere in the city. Or perhaps he might bring home a girl he met at the club and they would have sex. He wasn't too worried about being discreet about it either. I mean, I couldn't watch, of course, but if mom had witnessed the deed they performed, that didn't matter.
My parents didn't even sleep in the same bedroom anymore. Instead, Mom would sleep on the couch while Dad had the bed all to himself. Mom hadn't objected once to this arrangement. In my house, my dad was in charge, ruling with a hard fist and beating my mother and me severely if we got out of line. I was the one who was most likely to be out of line. My mother never bothered anybody. My mother was beaten because she couldn't do much of anything. "A woman's place is in the kitchen," my father would say, but my mother couldn't even turn the stove on, which was probably a good thing, because if she were to so much as boil some water, she's most likely set the whole house on fire.
So instead, I had to do all the housework. "I hope this doesn't make you a fag," my dad grumbled time and time again, sighing in defeat. But as far as he could see, he had no choice, since he didn't have enough money to hire a maid. After school, I was to help out on the farm as well. Working on the farm during the day and doing the dishes, cleaning, and vacuuming at night. My dad did the cooking and always bitched about how it made him feel like either a woman or a fag, but again, he had no choice. I barely had time to get any homework done. And forget about time to go out and have fun with friends, which is just as well, I guess, since I didn't have too many of those. It wasn't that I was a misfit that was constantly being picked on by bullies or anything; just invisible. I literally blended in; most of my peers didn't even acknowledge my existence. And my grades were usually just barely passing. I guess maybe if I could've done better, I might've gotten into a decent college and made something of myself, but that's not how things were meant to be, I guess, and it doesn't really matter much anyway.
My dad, though, despite everything, was respected around town. No one knew of his nightly debaucheries, how he would frequently cheat on my mom (I swear, he was so lucky that he had what might as well have been a lifeless husk of a wife, because any other woman would've surely left him, given what he put her through). And they had no idea that I was beaten. It was a different world back then anyway, and I'm not sure they would've noticed as easily if a child might be being beaten by his parents or if it would’ve been that big of an outrage. And my dad never beat me in public either, or if someone was over the house. If I screwed up, he would wait until the help had left for the day and then I would receive the thrashing of my life. The only thing that the others saw in him was the true virtues, such as how hard-working and generous he'd been. On the nights that he didn't head off to the cities to the strip clubs and sleazy bars, his friends would meet over at the house and have a nice friendly game of poker. And everyone thought that he was such a great guy for taking care of his wife in the condition she was in (even though I sometimes wonder if she had gotten in that condition as a result of the hundreds, perhaps thousands of blows to the head she'd taken at the hands of my father). He was even generous when donating to the church and to church-related charities. Believe it or not, despite some of the things my father did, he was still a deeply religious man, and would always drag me into church every Sunday, not that I would have dared to protest. I never once took to heart all anything in the Gospel or in any of the priest’s sermons, for the teachings of Christ promoted weakness with their “do unto others”philosophy. In his heart, my father seemed to believe in the teachings of the Bible yet took great pleasure in abusing those who were weaker than he, and that fact alone was a testament to his greatness.
To me, my father was God.
The beatings he gave me were the reason I feared him, but also the reason why I respected and admired him. It wasn't because I knew that he was doing this "for my own good", but because I’ve had a great admiration for bullies and for anyone in general who beat up someone else or somehow made their life a living hell. My father beat me, and in some perverse way, I worshipped him because of it, just as I would always stand there and watch in awe as he would beat my mother. The more violent and angry he became, the greater of a man he appeared in my eyes. He was even greater than the bullies at my school who always used to give the nerds, geeks, and retards hell every single day on the schoolyard because those dorks deserved it for being so weak and pathetic. In a lot of ways, I thought that I was weak and deserved to be beaten as well, but I still struggled to avoid it at all costs and always learned from my mistakes. I might have idolized my dad for hitting me, but I still hated the whole process nonetheless.
As I hit puberty and grew into a teenager, avoiding the beatings became harder and harder, it seemed. As a kid, I was a bed-wetter, like many kids are. But I never outgrew the habit, and while he might have been tolerant of it when I was a kid, as a teenager, he thought I was way too old for that crap, and he despised having to clean up the mess left behind. And also, since I'd been older, Dad assumed that that meant I should've been a lot smarter as well, so as a teenager, he'd been even less tolerant of the times I said or did something stupid. I'm glad that he never found out about the drugs I had taken or of the smut that I had hidden beneath my bed. Those thoughts were very burdensome, scaring me greatly, because I knew that Dad would hit the roof if he were to ever find out about them.
I don't know why I took such great chances with magazines like Hustler and Playboy, keeping them hidden under my bed as illegal contraband. It was always such a dull experience for me, so dry and impotent. Violence turned me on. It wasn't enough to see naked women; I wanted to dominate those women. I wanted to make them suffer, and those desires manifested into violent sexual fantasies, very intense, and those gave me the sexual drive I needed, and I masturbate vigorously to thoughts of beating and torturing them, skinning them alive, raping them before and after death.
The first wet dream I had was one in which I rode on top of a woman with my hands tightly clasped around her neck as her face contorted into a grimace of terror that turned blue from asphyxiation. In this dream, attached to my metallic cock was a pairing knife that was duct taped around the member, driving in and slashing her vagina each time I penetrated her sex. Her mouth opened, struggling to scream, but she was unable to because my hands had blocked her air passages. When I awoke, I was surprised to find myself soaked in a sticky white substance. I was used to wetting the bed, and that was nothing surprising, but to wake up with this sticky liquid which I later learned had been semen had been alien to me, and I had no idea what had happened. Even still, my penis was like a steal rod poking painfully through my crotch, and as bewildered as I was by the presence of my semen, I still felt as though I were in heaven.
To me, sex was never about pleasure, but about power, dominance, and suffering. The look of happiness and pleasure painted over a female’s countenance has always greatly sickened me—I don’t know why, but it just does. But the look of terror and suffering etched over her features has always been erotic. The Marquis de Sade said something along the lines of stating that signs of pain on a woman’s face are more dependable than that of bliss, but it goes much further than that. I am drawn to the power rush of dominating others, the thrill of violently destroying the mind, body, and soul of that which is weaker than I. And that is what sex means to me.
This isn't to say that I completely accepted my violent sexual nature. In face, I found it quite disturbing indeed that such violent mental images put me in such deep reverie. But one cannot control their sexual passions; we all know that. I'm more or less convinced that we cannot control any aspect of our personality or actions, in fact. So I accepted who I was, accepted my violent, deviant sexual urges. Fighting against fate is so pointless, after all. And eventually, I became desensitized to it; it no longer bothered me at all, and for that I am thankful, more so than words can say.
It was on the night of my mother's death that my baptismal began; the seeds of my misogyny had been planted years ago, now fully harvested this night.
The sudden crash awoke me, and I raced to the kitchen to see what the commotion had been, already having some clue. My dad was most likely beating my mother once again. This was nothing new, and it never bothered me before, but curiosity still beckoned me forward despite my better judgment. My mother, as I said, was just above the status of mindless husk; there was never any warmth there, no love.
As I raced into the kitchen, I saw my mother crash to the ground, moaning painfully as my father fastened his hand around her throat and lifted her hastily to her feet. Another punch to the jaw and I heard a loud crack, the sound of bones snapping apart, but it hadn't yet registered as to what happened. Mom fell to her back, looking up in a glassy stare, blood gushing from the corners of her mouth and from her nose.
Even then I was in denial. Maybe she was in another one of her trances. It had happened before, where she went into a trance and lay motionless on the ground. It could be the case now.
But eventually reality came crashing down upon my world and I realized that she was indeed dead. My father had done the unthinkable; he had actually killed my mother. In all the times that I had laid witness to her countless beatings; I had never thought that this night would come, that it would lead to this. My father was now a murderer, he had blood on his hands, and he would surely go to jail for what he had done. What I had witnessed was unsettling in its own right, yet at the same time made my father appear that much more powerful, and I watched in awe as he stood there in sobering disbelief over the atrocity he had inadvertently committed upon killing my mother.
"What're you doin' up?" My dad grabbed my arm and forcefully drew me closer.
I tried to answer, but couldn't. All I could do was stare into him, eyes widened in fear, mouth dropped open, trembling. I could feel his hot breath, reeking of booze, gusting over my face as his venomous spittle sprinkled my cheeks. I braced myself for another beating, looking away, squeezing my eyes shut, but surprisingly, he didn't hit me this time.
Dad and I carried Mom's body outside about a hundred yards away from the house into one of the fields and spent the rest of the night digging a deep enough hole, six feet into the ground, and then threw her in and buried her by one of the fields, leaving her as fertilizer for the crops.
Much of the experience was surrounded in a surreal haze of disbelief and there were times when I could’ve sworn I had dreamt the entire ordeal, the same way I had continually told myself that my brother’s death couldn’t be real at the time it had happened. It wasn’t that I had been saddened by my mother’s passing the way I had been when I had found out my brother had been killed, for I never loved my mother or cared for her in the least. Yet inklings of denial waxed and waned within my heart, making this situation seem coldly real to me one second, while dreamlike the next. I knew with absolute certainty that my father and I were burying the body of someone who was truly dead at times throughout that night, yet other times I half-expected to wake up in my bed the next morning in piss-sodden linen, only to realize that this was a dream that would quickly fade from memory as dawn’s early light penetrated my windows. Still other times I anticipated my mother awakening any second from unconsciousness or whatever catatonic trance she had been in at this point in time, and my father would see the mistake he had made in presuming her dead. Frequently, between intervals of digging her grave, I would repeatedly press my fingers tightly over the arteries on the side of my mother’s neck and withdrew them when I felt no pulse. I left to return digging again, tentatively accepting the fact of her demise, only to return to her corpse fifteen to twenty minutes later and repeat the entire process, only to come away yet again with the same results.
I continued to shift between acceptance and denial even after the hole had been completed and we had thrown her carcass into the ground and began to cover it with dirt. While at times I knew that she had been dead and we were burying nothing more than a lifeless husk, suspicions continued to jab at me that she hadn’t been dead just yet, and my father and I were burying her alive. Such “concerns” (if you want to refer to them as such) hadn’t hindered my movements, for I continued to fling dirt upon her indifferently, and a part of me found the idea of burying my mother alive and of the suffering she would endure before finally drowning in soil to be all the more enticing.
My acceptance of her death solidified by the time my father and I were done burying her body, and as the sun began to rise just beyond the horizon, I half expected to see her fingers protrude from the soil and to find the zombie-like woman struggling to climb from beneath the ground, but of course that hadn’t happened, and eventually, as morning continued to expel the darkened shadows of the previous night, I came to accept the fact that she was dead once and for all.
"If you tell anyone of what went on here last night," my father threatened after we had finished the burial, "I swear to God, Alex, I'll fucking kill you, too."
I nodded timidly, saying nothing.
And that was the end of that.
Getting away with the crime was easy enough. Mom never went out for anything and she didn't have any friends, so it wasn't like anyone missed her or had reason to question her absence. No one was worried. No one noticed she was gone. Thus, no one called the police or said anything. And mommy remained buried, rotting away forever in the middle of that farm, food for the maggots taking up residence below that soft patch of earth near the gardens.
The whole experience was somewhat unnerving for me, I'll admit, but overall, didn't really bother me that much. Since I never really loved her to begin with, there was no sorrow after her death. I just continued to go about my daily business as though nothing had happened. Nothing much had changed after she was dead. Dad was still the same violent alcoholic, bringing home sluts and prostitutes, all the while forcing me into church for mass every Sunday morning. Same old shit, only now there was no longer the brain dead zombie hanging around and creeping me out. Aside from the relief at not having the zombie hanging around the house, I felt nothing, other than an increasing veneration for my father and for the brutality and vigor he had shown upon killing my mother, even though it was completely by accident. My sexual fantasies grew progressively more violent, and my father never found out about any of it.
About three years later, in the fall of 1977, my father died as well of a heart attack. I had been eighteen at the time and had dropped out of high school two years prior—much to my father's disappointment. Nevertheless, I remained to help with all the work on the farm and the chores around the house. I had been there at the time my father was overtaken by his heart attack and witnessed the entire ordeal transpire.
Had I wanted to, I could have easily saved my father simply by calling for an ambulance, but I didn’t. And my inactivity was just as much to blame for his demise (if not more so) than the heart attack he had had in the first place. I held his life in the palm of my hand. The ability to save him or kill him rested within me and had been my first real experience with power. I relished every exquisite second of it. His emasculated countenance and teary eyes begged me to either call for help or give him the phone so he could do it for himself. Initially, I was about to give into his pleas, yet held back at the very last minute. With a change of heart and completely diminished concern, which quickly gave way to contempt, I instead stood by and taunted the dying man, holding the phone out to him, bringing it mere inches beyond his feeble reach.
“Quit fuckin’ ‘round ‘n’ gimme the goddamn phone,” he said, trying to scream, but was able to only belch, gasp, and wheeze the words from his throat. His hand clutched tightly to his chest as beads of perspiration broke over his brow and dripped down his face. His mouth dropped open slightly and he gasped and wheezed again, panting like a dehydrated dog, before his legs finally gave way, and he fell to the floor and continued to squirm, and spasm, his right hand still tightly clutched to his chest while his left shot outward, grasping desperately for purchase. “For the love’a God, please gimme the motherfuckin’ phone!” he squealed huskily as his eyes nearly popped from their socket.
I stood there with a quiet chuckle and a wry grin and shook my head.
“Please, goddamn it, I’m dyin’ over here!”
“Why don’t you get off your ass and get it yourself, you fucking faggot?” I hollered at him, feeling the fervent rush of power surging through my veins. “If you’re really God like I always thought you were, prove it and save yourself, you fucking pussy!”
Watching him struggle to his feet had been comical in and of itself, the way his entire body shook as he scrambled slowly, his thighs convulsing and buckling beneath his towering weight before he fell to his hands and knees, and then finally collapsed once more and fell flat on his face. He lay there, his eyes watering as he continued to plead and squirm upon the floor, and until after a while, his body’s movements ceased altogether. It was the smell of shit and piss assailed my nose that I knew for sure he was finally dead.
Later that night upon reflection as the exhilaration quickly wore off, I could scarcely believe that I could have been so callous and cruel over the entire ordeal. Not only had I done nothing to save or comfort my father, but instead I stood there and tormented him on his final moments on Earth, all the while I could have very easily saved him. I felt not an ounce of remorse for any of it, but only an incredulous perplexity to it all. I had always thought of my father as God, yet his strength and vitality were the reasons I adored him.
In death he had lost much of his prestige, for while he remained strong throughout his life, he appeared weak now because he had been beaten. As I replayed his death again and again in my mind, seeing him overcome suddenly by the heart attack, he appeared weakened, a mere shell of the man he had once been, and so I couldn’t remember this man with awe, but only with strong contempt, overreaching disgust as I gazed upon the mental image of his frail body. I would always love my father and cherish everything he represented, but through my embittered disillusionment, I would remain without a shred of remorse for having so callously allowed him to suffer and perish.
A funeral was held about a week later. My mother was never given a funeral, because no one knew or care that she had died, and she was still officially listed as a missing person. But my father was very popular around the town, and everyone attended his funeral, myself included, although I didn't give any kind of eulogy. Most of the people there were crying, dressed in black as I was dressed in black, but I simply remained solemn, not a tear wept from my eyes, only cold acceptance.
I was eighteen years of age, so I inherited the house. It was nice living alone. No one to nag me or invade my privacy. No one to beat me severely when I said or did something stupid. I had the whole house and farm to myself, and the mortgage had already been paid off, so that was a bonus. The land was Daddy's pride and joy. I didn't give a rat's ass about it. As a result, all the work on the farm remained unattended, and all the animals starved and eventually died because I had neglected to take care of them. While the mortgage was paid off, all those acres of land accumulated to hefty property taxes, which I couldn't afford, thus forcing me to sell the land to the highest bidder and moved into a cheap apartment up north in the city. I bounced around from job to job over the next decade or so, working at gas stations and fast food joints.
Throughout my twenties, I spent the days working, and the nights masturbating.
I never once bothered with a relationship with other women nor had I been the least bit interested. It isn’t the whole “fear of commitment” that many men seem to suffer from, but the fact that relationships require emotional attachment and the desire to make your partner happy for the relationship to work, and that was the last thing I ever wanted. I’ve already explained earlier what sex means to me, and if I am to have sex with a woman, I don’t want her to love or care about me, but instead look upon me with the utmost revulsion and fear. I want her to see me as a monster, a merciless, inhumane abomination ready to snuff her life out only after she has suffered immeasurably. For that reason, the very thought of a relationship with a woman seemed not only pointless to me, but sickening and repulsive, almost downright disturbing.
I eventually took up role playing with myself. The women I slaughtered in these role playing exercises were mere figments of my imagination. If anyone saw what I was doing—talking to myself, while beating, massacring, and raping thin air—they'd think I was insane. But it didn't feel crazy one bit. It felt real. I can't explain it, but it felt as though I were really there, really committing such brutal atrocities against a woman who truly existed and was really before me. And the "experience" would always end with an explosive orgasm while the imaginary women I tortured were mercilessly thrust into the cold dark void. Then I would rinse off the semen and head off to bed.
The next morning, I would always wake up soaked in urine after having wet the bed, but since my father was no longer alive to beat me and make me feel ashamed of my bed-wetting “problem,” it was never that big of a deal and in some ways, despite being an involuntary action, it felt like an act of thrilling defiance, something I could now do freely and get away with because I was on my own now and had to answer to no one but myself. For that reason, I find it comforting to wake up in the morning soaked in piss, because while it is something that I should be ashamed of, something I’m not supposed to do as an adult, it remained my deep dark secret that no one had to know about. It could be used as a means of spitting on my father’s grave. In that respect, wetting the bed makes me feel like I’ve got power over God.