MurdererHow Did I End Up In Jail?
Many people ask me that. And I never have an answer.
It was probably the unfair system of America that has ruined many lives. Killed the Innocent. And let loose millions of devilish, pure evil criminal master minds.
Or is it just me?
Where's the ideal place to start a story? The beginning is often used. And sometimes the ending. But where do I start. After all one's life is affected by those before him. His grandparents. His parents.
I suppose my parents had always played a major part in my life. They damaged me. Fixed me. and sometimes... Scared me.
I guess I'll start from where I remember. And that would be when I was five years old.
It was a brief five second scene. barely enough to be labeled a memory. But I would tell you it, nevertheless, After all, if this is my chance to explain myself. Why leave anything out?
When I was young. I was a subject of constant laughs and jokes. The center of every pun and insult. several laughing five and six year old children, fine, healthy-skinned, strong... stronger than me, still haunted my dreams every night. Some damn memories of the past don't leave you alone.
Timmy, a five year old kid, who was constantly picking on me. He never gave a damn about. He always bossed me around, picked on me, stole my lunch money. For someone in KG. That kid was obnoxious.
I was rarely ever surrounded with friend. Whether because of my sensitive skin or other reasons, I don't know. But the fact is friends didn't come with each season. Owing to the fact that I have sensitive skin that sunburns and wind-burns very easily. I don't think anything was seasonal for me... ever. And when friends did come along, Others with 'problems' like me, or a very compassionate healthy kid, I never had let go of them. Perhaps that was the reason for loosing my friends. I was too close for comfort.
But returning to my original topic. The peak of my memories.
I was, a rather slight and short, pale child, playing with some other children. perhaps four or five. None of which were like the others born into filthy rich families like me. I remember there was a kid called Dan. An African American happy child. Another one. An Asian. whose name I have forgotten. And some other white kids from rather, less 'rich' families.
My father had been furious. As soon as he saw me playing hide-and-go-seek with my new 'friends' in the park, he'd grabbed me by the arm. and hauled me away yelling at me.
"Never play with those... Cheap Immigrants."
At age five, I didn't know what Immigrants meant. Naive as I was, I had labeled it under "Bad".
With my father banning me from playing with, as he called them, those damned immigrants, that should return to their own country.
In one word. I had no friends. Well maybe in four words. But all the same. I had no friends.
And the idea of seeing a friend in my father was downright ludicrous. a Friend. In MY Father?
The same father who'd pushed me away when I tried to embrace him on Christmas . The same father who'd been away for months and months to come without a single word. No Phone calls. No Letters... Nothing. The Father who'd never gave me anything. Despite being a successful, and more importantly, a powerful businessman who sat on the throne... trying to claim the world?!
No.. I don't believe he would have made a good friend.
No matter how coldly I was treated my father, I was never a victim of child abuse. He had never raised much of his voice at me to raise a hand. My existence was shunned by him... forever.
My mother had rather, wistfully, drifted away from my life. I never saw much of her. And when I did I saw this sad, lonely woman who herself endured a life of pure misery to assist mine. She had been my father's rather unfortunate wife. He had divorced her not too long after my birth... Somehow I felt myself responsible for that.
My mother wasn't able to cope with life herself. It was not long after my sixth birthday. She'd committed suicide. She left a note. Yes she did. a rather complexed and complicated one. One that I didn't understand until now.
I'm sorry... I tried to stop you, But it was too late.
Actually mother I'm sorry, I'm very sorry.
If my childhood had been hard. My adolescent years were simply misery.
I was never laughed at again. But it was rather worse to be not acknowledged by anyone in a good way. The eerie quietness of the hallways when I passed through. The whispers. The rumors. The tangle of gossip I was never able to escape. Stuck like a fly in a spider's web. Yes... Somehow the childplay laughter was easier to endure.
Love and infatuations had been another side-effect of my physical (and, somewhat, mental) 'sensitivity'. I, pale and fragile, had never been much of a love interest. The female students didn't cast a backwards glance at me. And if they did, it was one of disgust or of shock, probably because someone had been spreading some lies about me and they had heard them. Other then that, I never caught the attention of females.
Once I, gathered enough courage and boldness, to ask a girl, named Katy, out to the prom.
The reaction had blown me away.
She had laughed, But nothing like the children laughing. She wasn't ignorant, she wasn't blinded by the innocence of childhood. She had laughed, and she knew that I wasn't an inanimate object which disables to feel or sense anything. I knew what she said, I knew what she meant. That I was just too damn freakish to be in a twenty mile radius with her. And on the day after the prom when there was the news of a car blowing up to bits. Only she was on my mind.
Although, this might seem odd, but I had gotten married, despite myself.
It was arranged, and my father had arranged it.
I didn't understand at first. But things became much more clearer when I met her for the first time.
Ivy Lee. The only child of a wealthy businessman. The heiress of his business. His money. Perfect to satisfy my father's ultimate greed.
Ivy had been the ideal prey. She easily unnerved, timid. She had been sheltered all her life with people much like my father. She'd grown up in such a superficial world that she almost instantly trusted me.
I, for one, was someone she could relate to.
Ivy was sweet. She'd just started to come out of her shell, that she purposely drawn over herself, with me. She was a kind, gentle creature.. Someone who gave me all the love that I never received from my father. Although I had years of grudges against my father. I loved him, and I forgave him, for making me marry her.
Of course.. So I thought.
My dear wife wasn't as timid or shy, or caring, as I thought. Now I've learned to never judge anyone if I've only spent a few months with them. After those glorious few months Ivy begun to show another, rather odd side of her. One that I couldn't relate too. Of course I had been a subject of bullying when I was young.
She was now what I will always remember as Poison Ivy.
Ivy had always been in charge. The Alpha Female. I guess I wasn't cut out to be the boss. Ivy bossed me around, Yes. But she was never rough with me. She never yelled at me. I never heard her yell. When she started Abusing her authority. I knew exactly why she'd been so timid and shy before.
I had been so gullible.
She had been calculating the worth of every individual in the house. She kept her hawkish amber eyes keen on my insurance money. She once even asked me.
"Would you die for me?"
I, Being the idiot I was, answered with a 'Yes'
Ivy would have no remorse of killing him if he had said. But giving her permission, would be the most idiotic thing I've ever done.
It didn't take her long to start abusing me.
She helped My Father with his business. Trying to take charge of him, too. She returned home every evening with a whip. She had beaten me mercilessly, yelling out. "I am Your Master."
She must've intimidated the servants, too. Or maybe they enjoyed watching me hurt.
Whichever it was, They never told my Father.
Not that he would care. He would damn approve of it.
One day, The strength came to me. I spoke up to her.
"Why do you do this to me?"
She didn't like me speaking. She wanted to have me quiet... Permanently.
Ivy grabbed a pistol from her collection which was tucked away safely in the closet. She held the pistol to my head, swearing she would kill me.
At first, I closed my eyes, accepting my fate. I was just a too sensitive man who was forced to marry this, power-obsessed woman. What could I have done against her?
But then, with sudden, intense impulse to live. To turn my life. I stood up to Ivy for the first time.
We were about the same height. I was face-to-face with her, And I saw this.. Monster in her eyes.
We struggled for the gun. Her hand was so near to the trigger. I had been almost shot. I was careful to stay out of the pistol's range. She was much more stronger than me. Healthier. There was a gunshot.
And Ivy fell, Lying in a pool of blood.
My hands had trembled. My forehead was coated in sweat. There was a new little bullet hole right in her heart. And fresh red blood poured out. The gun was on the tile floor in Ivy's bloody hand. What happened?
The butler came in to see what had happened. He saw Ivy there, lying. And me hunched up in a ball against the wall.
I looked up at him. "I didn't mean to do it. It just happened" I mumbled, almost to myself.
James, The butler, did the only thing he thought best. He dialed for my Father.
Father didn't ask for me, And I was glad. I didn't know what to say. It seemed as if I forgotten how to speak.
This happened to me, every time.
Father entered through the gates. With the same cold atmosphere swirling around him. He didn't look the least bit touched. My eyes were glued to him. What is he going to do? What will he say?
He gestured for me to near him. My knees shook as I did so. He placed an arm around my shoulder, roughly. And said, for the first time, with pride in his voice.
"That's my boy."
I stole a quick shocked glance at him. He had that to say? I killed my wife. And he says that?
And then I understood what he said.
Mum didn't suicide. She was killed.
And this Monster was her killer.
I don't know what had took over me. But whatever it was I can't say I hate it. The passion was amazing. I finally did something I should have done long ago.
I slowly bent over to Ivy. And took the bloody pistol from her hand.
I still say in my defense. That my father had it coming. But here I am in jail.
I can't lie. I don't want to lie. I will say the truth. I didn't feel bad when I killed my father.
I felt very good. Very, very good.
Like how a star feels in the nighttime's sky. Like a bird soaring through a blue cloudless sky. It felt right. It fitted like the last piece of puzzle. It felt nothing like my previous murders.
When at five, I murdered that little kid Tommy. He had made me suffer a great deal. And once while on a camping trip with his friends, he fell off a cliff, and hung for his life. I happened to be walking by. I saw him, and as, natural human extinct told me, I did my best to save him. I bent over, and stretched my arms to save him. He grabbed hold, and started climbing. And then I saw him in a different light. I saw him as the snot-nosed kid laughing at me at the playground. And I pushed him off. Feeling numb
And then when I was at school. The girl, Katy, was riding with her date to the prom. I was sitting in the bushes. Stalking them. I saw him, Josh, drive in with his fancy Mercedes, and rung the door bell to receive. Katy's Father escorted him inside, giving him a lecture. I had to move swiftly. They would come out any minute. I moved and opened the hood. Carefully I did my adjustments. And in the news there was the story of a car going up in flames for no apparent reason. Everything had been burned, and blown by the wind, at least that's what they think. I was in contact with a bunch of hooligans from the slums. They took all that was mechanical.
In any case, It was just another in a list of unsolved homicides.
During the interrogation. I swear the two cops interrogating me were going to cry.
They were looking at me in this awed intimidation I've been living in L.A for my entire life. I never left even for holidays. My father wasn't a silent man. Anything he accomplished rung wildly in the media. I was usually left out of his press conferences. Rarely mentioned. Everyone knew, that my father was ashamed to have a son like me. He was damned ashamed. I was dubbed as being 'Harmless', an easy target for the likes of Ivy. The news of me killing my own father was outrageous. Horrid.
The good men of the police didn't let go of their guns once they entered, I noticed. They were damned scared of me.
Maybe they did have a good reason. I was a murder since I was five, but they didn't know that when they entered. I guess the thought of a son killing his father was intimidation enough... I can't imagine their horror when I confessed my other murders.
Just imagine.. My horror. When I learned that I was a murderer.
I hope you are in complete horror now. Comment!
P.S. I used to be 090909as. Weird name, changed it.
P.S.S. I met with the cookie monster and he changed me into his number-one enemy. Human monster.
P.S.S.S (Are these getting annoying?! TOO BAD!) I didn't give up on writing Teen and Fantasy. I just started writing Murder and Mystery.
P.S.S.S.S Hala's back. IMPROVED!