Matthew Cora

Eng 112f

Narration

 

The End

 

            My parents were happy with the pregnancy although I was not planned. They had doubts of whether they could support another hungry mouth, but nevertheless decided to go through with pregnancy, and keep me as their own. This decision proved to be more than they could handle. It was a cold morning, or so I was told, and the date was February 13. At 10:04pm my mother went into labor. My father rose from watching the usual nonsense on television at that time to drive her to the hospital. Four hours later, Jonathan Josephs was introduced into the world. From what they say, they were overjoyed with this new, small life. They took me home, and I guess from there, it just got worse.

            My first memory is an overall good one. On my fourth birthday, I was given a small dog. I don’t remember what type it was, but I remember him being brown and small. I enjoyed it, and we had good times together. My memories with him are short lived, all because of my father.

He came home one night, not too long after my birthday, “dizzy” as I called it, and saw me watching the television with my new friend by my side. I was feeding him dry cereal, out of the bowl that sat in my lap. “What the fuck is this?” he yelled at me. “What?” I replied, my naiveness being no match for the drunken rage he felt. “You like wasting my money don’t you? I work long hard days for that cereal, and for what? For you to give it to the dog! Get over here you little shit!” and with that he charged at me with a relentless assault. I only remember the first few hits, the back of my head hitting the floor, and the punches to my face and side. I passed out within a couple of seconds from the shock, waking up the next day to see my dog lying next to me on the floor. He too had his share of my father, only it was fatal for him.

The next couple of years taught me a couple of things. For one, never trust anyone, for even those closest to me had their many moments when they would explode. Second, it taught me that love was fleeting. My parents told me they loved me, but times proved to give more exceptions than instances where love was proved. My mother was an overall motivated woman. She tried hard to do her best, but her terrible upbringing (which I will not discuss) prevented her from being anything but a terror. My father was always thirsty.  Whenever I saw him it was among the bottles that smelled like poison. And it was that drink which made my most memorable experiences. I learned these lessons well, an they are always with me.

They would both complain to each other, in very harsh words, and very loud tones, about how they hated each other and their life and their jobs. I remember hearing my mother on the phone with my grandmother, talking about how she wanted to go somewhere. She never specified, and only talked about “leaving”. I always wondered what would happen if she did leave, because whenever she talked about leaving, she always mentioned my father, yet never mentioned leaving with him. I figured she would go to my grandmother’s place. If she did, I would like to go there too.

One day when I was about five, the three of us went over to my grandmother’s house. I liked her house because it was in the country. Thinking of the city made me think of dirt and darkness. The tall buildings casting shadows, combined with garbage everywhere made it look terrible. We went for some event which I don’t remember. I know it was something big because there were a lot of my family members. There were so many people who talked to me. Almost everyone said, “I remember when you were this small,” as they made a hand motion. I did not remember them, and as far as I knew, they were strangers. I stuck to my mother when those people were around, although that made me feel odd. These faces bought about an uncertainty which I would rather not have. I clung to the known terror and hoped she did not hurt me.

We were in the kitchen of the house at one point and my mother was pouring herself a drink. I asked her for one as well. “What do you want?” she replied. “Umm…Milk!” I said. She turned to the fridge and put back whatever she had in her hand and pulled out the gallon that was in the fridge. “No, no. Apple juice!” I said. She turned at me and gave a glare, as if I had insulted her. She went to put the milk away, and took out the apple juice. She began to pour, when I said “Milk!” With that, a half filled cup of apple juice came flying at my face, hitting me square on my forehead. The rest of the day was nothing special. My mother made an excuse saying, “You know how kids are,” when anyone asked about the juice stain that was now on my clothes.

Starting school was a scare for me. The first day, surrounded by all the new and dangerous faces made me wet myself multiple times. This bought about a hidden dislike from the teachers, a direct dislike from the other students, and another bout of hate from my parents. That night, my father taunted me, “Maybe you’ll learn how to control yourself now?” as he lashed me across the back in his drunken stupor. He was right, for out of fear of the beatings that would come had I wet myself again, I fought the pain and merely trickled the next day in class.

At school, I did not like to play with the other children. They had made fun of me on the first day, and it was my lasting impression of them. Coloring time would be my favorite, it was the only point where I could express my feelings. A picture of me alone on a mountain, or crying at home, or getting laughed at by other kids was always the themes for my better pieces. The teachers asked me a lot of questions, always about how I felt. I would tell them that I wanted to be left alone. They bothered me, and I never understood they were trying to help me.

Because of my rejections of their offers, they graded me rather harshly. Even in kindergarten I remember receiving low reports on the E G S U I (excellent, good, satisfactory, unsatisfactory, incomplete) scale. These grades continued throughout elementary school, mostly due to my bouts with depression. Many nights I would sit alone, outside near this river type body of water near my apartment. There, I was allowed to experience of openness free from any tyranny my mother or father could bring on me. Work did not concern me, because it was not interesting or enjoyable. With these feeling, I paid little attention to schoolwork. And if worst came to worst, I would merely receive the same treatment I got anyway. Fear of consequences did not motivate me.

Nothing changed much in my home throughout the next couple of years of my life. Many nights I would cry from the beatings which I received for the nonsense that my father loved to beat me about. I can recall so clearly, the sounds of the footsteps from me running around the house, and my eyes filled with tears fearing the pain that was to come when he did catch me. “What had I done to deserve this,” I would ask myself.

I learned that my mother numbed herself to the world through the use of many “hard” drugs. It was not uncommon to see her in a speechless state because of the large amount of heroine she had done. I first learned of her use when I came home after school one day. Upset, as was the norm, I entered the apartment to see her lying on the table. On one corner of her face was a bowl of fruit loops, tipped over and spilling on the table and her lap. She was oblivious to the mess, and simply laid there. To the right of her were two small bags, one filled with a white powdery substance. Being eleven years old, I had encountered many pictures and movies where drugs were the central theme. I knew what had gone on, and I left her there, to deal with her mess when she awoke.

When I reached the age of 13, I met a very good friend whom would be the motivation behind the deeds which happened. Xavier White, the one person I put in a slight amount of hope and faith, against the corruption my mind had endured. We became friends when he forcefully approached me, I guess out of curiosity. He told me of himself and asked if we could hang out some day that week. I accepted, but only after being harassed and shown some imperfections of my train of thought. He teased me, good naturedly, and finally bought down the walls I had placed between myself and the world. Our relationship took a turn for the better everyday. I would go to his house after school, and we would do whatever was convenient.

We would talk a lot, and I would tell him about my family, and how I did not care for them. He seemed to understand, in part because he lacked any serious development with his own. He told me that they were always at work, and that when they were home, they were tired and needed sleep. He did not seem to be bothered by this, and accepted it as part of life. I liked his outlook on them, and so I adopted it as my own. I no longer saw my parents as devices for my own displeasure, but now I saw them as the bodies that were meant to raise me. This allowed me to remove the last bit of feeling I had for them. These were the feelings I did not want to give up because I felt it was wrong to feel nothing, especially for those who birthed me. With this I also realized I did not have to tolerate the nonsense they put me through.

I discussed with Xavier my plans for the removal of my parents, and he seemed to take infinite pleasure in hearing me discuss the details. My mother was always home, and getting rid of her would be easy. Simply replacing her drugs with some rodenticide that was similar in color and texture, and having her snort a line would do the job. As for my father the bottle would do him in. I remembered walking through a hardware shop once and seeing this industrial strength drain cleaner that had a warning, “HIGHLY TOXIC – DO NOT INGEST. LETHAL IF SWALLOWED.” Surely, that would provide the end for him.

I got home one day to find my mother passed out on the table, the norm for any weekday. As was also the norm, a couple of empty baggies lay on the table next to her. I grabbed one, filled it up with the rodenticide, and replaced it on the table, she’d wake up and not know the difference (there had been many times where I had walked in to find bags half filled or completely full). I figured I would wait until the day I came from school to see her dead on the table before I tainted the alcohol. It was only the next day when I came back to find her on the floor headed in the direction of the telephone. I dragged her into my room as I had planned, and stuck her in my closet. Next, I headed towards the liquor cabinet which was filled with a small selection of vodka. I took one that was about one-third full, and replaced about one-third with drain cleaner. Now, I waited.

The time that it took for him to get home seemed like an eternity. I waited there and seriously contemplated, for the first time, what I would do without these people, the ones who provided food and shelter. This seemed to be my only flaw in planning, for now I was stuck as to what was to become of me. I did not let that bother me because everything had already gone beyond the point of going back, and I did not want to go back anyway. My father got home at 8:22, and followed the normal routine. “Where’s your mother?” he asked, in the worst tone he could muster. I answered that she had gone to the store a short while ago. Then, as always, he went to the liquor cabinet and grabbed the liter of vodka. He took it over to a chair and put on the television. He opened the bottle a took a swig like none other. He did not bother to taste it, he simply swallowed to mouthful. Immediately after this he began choking and suffocating. It seemed that the cleaner had started burning through his throat. He looked at me while choking with a plea of desperation in his face. He noticed the lack of emotion in my face, and immediately realized I had been the one behind this. His expression then changed from desperation to one of hate, and with that he fell to his knees. That fiery look in his eyes did not dim. I walked over to him and kicked him across the face. He fell to the floor and began coughing up small amounts of blood. His breathing slowed to a gurgle, then stopped. I knew he was dead, dead from the poison he loved to drink.

This is my confession to you. Do with me what you wish.