04-30-2014, 06:19 AM
I guess you could say I killed my dad because of a remark at a graveside. But we both know that if a dad has been loving and kind, or even just tolerable, a son like me could accept any remark without murderous rage. When spoken by a loved parent, in fact, such a comment might not even have been tasteless.
Coming from my dad, however, it was like a checkered flag signalling that I was now free to kill him and feel no guilt. I don’t see myself as a psychopath, sociopath, schizophrenic or anything like that. I never had any wish to be a serial killer, and wouldn’t be called a sadist by my harshest critic. When I killed my dad, and when I thought of killing him, I knew he’d be my only victim. (No Hungerford-style massacres for me, thanks.) And all because of that remark.
The departed one, whose graveside we skirted on that bland April day, was the only woman I’ve ever loved, including female relations. Her name was Anne and we married while she was in the last stages of AIDS, having known each other a year before then. Daughter of a troubled home, she’d taken up drugs at a fragile age, with what amounted to approval from her parents. After all, they’d snorted the occasional line of cocaine since they were her age, so why shouldn’t she? But my Anne wasn’t like them. She was frail and sweet, a thirsty flower among dry cobblestones.
The priest had finished his routine lamentations and was walking back to the church when my dad, stood beside me, said “well, you can’t say it was a surprise.” The other mourners were trickling away, so I was the only one who’d heard this, which was, I suppose, his intention. My only discernible reaction, which his milky eyes probably missed, was a slight twitch at the corner of my mouth. I’ll kill you, I thought, still staring at the lid of the coffin below, knowing my Anne was in there among the white padding and varnished wood.
She was in the third row of graves, overshadowed by a large, multi-branched tree, which seemed appropriate. My Anne was always the girl in the shadow of the tree, this branch her dope-dealing brothers, that one her lousy parents. Placing a gnarled hand on my shoulder, my dad tried to lead me away, like I was a guide dog. With no particular malice in the gesture I walked in the opposite direction, letting his hand fall to his side. I’m going to kill you, I thought, as I pictured his petulant stare at my back.
There are many ways to slyly and subtly kill a man, treating his body like an engine which must be sabotaged in a precise manner, if you’re to evade detection, so it was a shock when I wound up just kicking the old fart down the stairs. Stood on the landing in my brown loafers, tweed trousers and white vest and shirt, I couldn’t take my eyes from his back as he bent at the head of the stairs, preparing to descend.
With no great premeditation I suddenly walked close, lifted one loafer, and gave his back a savage kick, like you would a stubborn door. He tumbled and splattered like a bulging bin-liner. I half-expected to find a fox sniffing the torn flesh at his crown, looking for tea leaves and sausage. I stood at the head of the stairs for about five minutes, looking at one of his eyes as it twitched then settled on me, reflecting betrayal. I like to think that, before his brain said “sod it” and packed up its things, he recalled the time he belted me in the hallway, as I cowered where he was now. Probably, though, he just thought “you git” and blacked out.
Our front door had frosted glass panes, which unsettled me, though no-one could have seen anything unless they were pressed against them. The hallway hadn’t been re-carpeted since 1972, hence its now kitsch floral design, and all that decorated it (apart from dad’s corpse) was an empty hat stand; a few umbrellas scattered at its feet; a phone stand on which sat, besides the obvious, an address book and vase of dead, yellow roses; and a ceramic dalmation with scared eyes. The few flecks of blood now colouring its snout didn’t help the aspect.
I walked down the stairs and studied dad’s back. No footprint. At least he’d taught me to always have clean shoes, I thought, and remembered the belting again. I took a handkerchief from my shirt pocket and was about to start wiping the dog’s snout when I checked myself. Replacing the handkerchief, I stood up, walked to the phone stand and dialled 999.
Anne looked great in her green dress, a silver chain, studded with tiny objects like a star and a cottage, around her neck. She sat on a bright pink beach towel, knees pulled up against her chest and arms wrapped around them, even though it was a hot day. My Anne liked people, but was terrified of them. I studied her from a slight distance, an ice cream in each hand, as she stared intently at the sea, where what seemed like hundreds of children and their parents played. I must have looked like a choosy predator, standing there in just green shorts and sandals, each hand holding an ice cream, eyes fixed on something no-one else noticed.
That was a month before she was diagnosed with AIDS. “Anne!” I called, finally pulling myself from the trance. I walked over and handed her an ice-cream before she’d even finished turning her head. “Please tell me you’re enjoying yourself” I pleaded. She smiled, that smile which was so sexy because it was so innocent yet worldly, and I could have taken her right there, on that pink beach towel, amidst a sea of parents hastily covering their children’s eyes and shouting abuse at us. “I’m enjoying myself” she replied.
“For the Good Lord’s sake, Henry, will you please pay attention to a grieving widow!” It was mum who spoke, and I, disturbed from my reverie, looked up at her. She sat primly on the edge of what was once dad’s armchair, iced cordial held slightly before her. “You were divorced” I said, not regretting the callousness. Her eyes, which normally betrayed just distaste and irritation, now showed indignace. “How dare you…” she said.
I shrugged. “What do you want from me, mum? The last thing you said to him was that you wished he’d died in the Navy and never met you.”
“Women say things they don’t always mean” she said, an unamused smile sneaking across her face, “you of all men should know that.”
“Be careful, mum” I said, meeting her eyes, “be very careful.” She withered a little at that, sensing the menace. We’d just returned from dad’s funeral, which she’d attended more because of a sense of duty than any lingering feelings. Since leaving dad she’d become a Mormon and renounced all stimulants, even tea, which she’d once drunk more of than an addicted vicar’s wife. I’d bought the sugarless cordial she now drank especially for her. Her new husband, a teacher and author of religious literature, had gone straight home after the funeral.
Mum sniffed her cordial. “This smells like almonds” she said, “are you sure you didn’t put anything in it?”
“Quite sure” I replied, almost unconsciously aping her affected manners.
“Quite sure?”
“I didn’t put anything in it, mum” I said, feigning irritation.
But the truth is, dear reader, I did, and as I write this now her eyes are starting to droop and her grasp on the glass loosen. I didn’t lie when I told you it was never my wish to be a serial killer, but murder, I’ve realised, is a little bit moreish, like those ginger biscuits I served with our drinks.
Coming from my dad, however, it was like a checkered flag signalling that I was now free to kill him and feel no guilt. I don’t see myself as a psychopath, sociopath, schizophrenic or anything like that. I never had any wish to be a serial killer, and wouldn’t be called a sadist by my harshest critic. When I killed my dad, and when I thought of killing him, I knew he’d be my only victim. (No Hungerford-style massacres for me, thanks.) And all because of that remark.
The departed one, whose graveside we skirted on that bland April day, was the only woman I’ve ever loved, including female relations. Her name was Anne and we married while she was in the last stages of AIDS, having known each other a year before then. Daughter of a troubled home, she’d taken up drugs at a fragile age, with what amounted to approval from her parents. After all, they’d snorted the occasional line of cocaine since they were her age, so why shouldn’t she? But my Anne wasn’t like them. She was frail and sweet, a thirsty flower among dry cobblestones.
The priest had finished his routine lamentations and was walking back to the church when my dad, stood beside me, said “well, you can’t say it was a surprise.” The other mourners were trickling away, so I was the only one who’d heard this, which was, I suppose, his intention. My only discernible reaction, which his milky eyes probably missed, was a slight twitch at the corner of my mouth. I’ll kill you, I thought, still staring at the lid of the coffin below, knowing my Anne was in there among the white padding and varnished wood.
She was in the third row of graves, overshadowed by a large, multi-branched tree, which seemed appropriate. My Anne was always the girl in the shadow of the tree, this branch her dope-dealing brothers, that one her lousy parents. Placing a gnarled hand on my shoulder, my dad tried to lead me away, like I was a guide dog. With no particular malice in the gesture I walked in the opposite direction, letting his hand fall to his side. I’m going to kill you, I thought, as I pictured his petulant stare at my back.
There are many ways to slyly and subtly kill a man, treating his body like an engine which must be sabotaged in a precise manner, if you’re to evade detection, so it was a shock when I wound up just kicking the old fart down the stairs. Stood on the landing in my brown loafers, tweed trousers and white vest and shirt, I couldn’t take my eyes from his back as he bent at the head of the stairs, preparing to descend.
With no great premeditation I suddenly walked close, lifted one loafer, and gave his back a savage kick, like you would a stubborn door. He tumbled and splattered like a bulging bin-liner. I half-expected to find a fox sniffing the torn flesh at his crown, looking for tea leaves and sausage. I stood at the head of the stairs for about five minutes, looking at one of his eyes as it twitched then settled on me, reflecting betrayal. I like to think that, before his brain said “sod it” and packed up its things, he recalled the time he belted me in the hallway, as I cowered where he was now. Probably, though, he just thought “you git” and blacked out.
Our front door had frosted glass panes, which unsettled me, though no-one could have seen anything unless they were pressed against them. The hallway hadn’t been re-carpeted since 1972, hence its now kitsch floral design, and all that decorated it (apart from dad’s corpse) was an empty hat stand; a few umbrellas scattered at its feet; a phone stand on which sat, besides the obvious, an address book and vase of dead, yellow roses; and a ceramic dalmation with scared eyes. The few flecks of blood now colouring its snout didn’t help the aspect.
I walked down the stairs and studied dad’s back. No footprint. At least he’d taught me to always have clean shoes, I thought, and remembered the belting again. I took a handkerchief from my shirt pocket and was about to start wiping the dog’s snout when I checked myself. Replacing the handkerchief, I stood up, walked to the phone stand and dialled 999.
Anne looked great in her green dress, a silver chain, studded with tiny objects like a star and a cottage, around her neck. She sat on a bright pink beach towel, knees pulled up against her chest and arms wrapped around them, even though it was a hot day. My Anne liked people, but was terrified of them. I studied her from a slight distance, an ice cream in each hand, as she stared intently at the sea, where what seemed like hundreds of children and their parents played. I must have looked like a choosy predator, standing there in just green shorts and sandals, each hand holding an ice cream, eyes fixed on something no-one else noticed.
That was a month before she was diagnosed with AIDS. “Anne!” I called, finally pulling myself from the trance. I walked over and handed her an ice-cream before she’d even finished turning her head. “Please tell me you’re enjoying yourself” I pleaded. She smiled, that smile which was so sexy because it was so innocent yet worldly, and I could have taken her right there, on that pink beach towel, amidst a sea of parents hastily covering their children’s eyes and shouting abuse at us. “I’m enjoying myself” she replied.
“For the Good Lord’s sake, Henry, will you please pay attention to a grieving widow!” It was mum who spoke, and I, disturbed from my reverie, looked up at her. She sat primly on the edge of what was once dad’s armchair, iced cordial held slightly before her. “You were divorced” I said, not regretting the callousness. Her eyes, which normally betrayed just distaste and irritation, now showed indignace. “How dare you…” she said.
I shrugged. “What do you want from me, mum? The last thing you said to him was that you wished he’d died in the Navy and never met you.”
“Women say things they don’t always mean” she said, an unamused smile sneaking across her face, “you of all men should know that.”
“Be careful, mum” I said, meeting her eyes, “be very careful.” She withered a little at that, sensing the menace. We’d just returned from dad’s funeral, which she’d attended more because of a sense of duty than any lingering feelings. Since leaving dad she’d become a Mormon and renounced all stimulants, even tea, which she’d once drunk more of than an addicted vicar’s wife. I’d bought the sugarless cordial she now drank especially for her. Her new husband, a teacher and author of religious literature, had gone straight home after the funeral.
Mum sniffed her cordial. “This smells like almonds” she said, “are you sure you didn’t put anything in it?”
“Quite sure” I replied, almost unconsciously aping her affected manners.
“Quite sure?”
“I didn’t put anything in it, mum” I said, feigning irritation.
But the truth is, dear reader, I did, and as I write this now her eyes are starting to droop and her grasp on the glass loosen. I didn’t lie when I told you it was never my wish to be a serial killer, but murder, I’ve realised, is a little bit moreish, like those ginger biscuits I served with our drinks.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe