“I will find him for you, Sweet Bee, and I will bring you his motherfucking dick as a trophy.”
Chapter Seven
Tanner
Age 7
“Miss Laney, may I go to the bathroom, please?” Berkleigh raises her hand and speaks at the same time, her leg shaking like she’s about to pee herself. I start to rise from my seat so I can get Miss Laney’s attention—clearly, she’s too busy coddling what’s-her-face who’s always crying—but before I can yell at her, she looks up at my Sweet Bee.
“The bell’s going to ring in two minutes, Berkleigh. You can wait.”
“No, Miss Laney, I really can’t.” Sweet Bee’s voice makes that high-pitched sound it always does seconds before she starts crying. I won’t be able to control myself if I see even one tear fall down her cheek.
“Fine, go ahead. Take the hall pass and be quick or else…” There will be no or else, not if I can help it.
“I think she peed her panties.” Behind me, I hear one of the girls making fun of Berkleigh. My hands fist so tightly my knuckles go white. Grandpa said I’m not supposed to hit girls. No one understands or forgives a boy who hits a girl. I don’t getit though. What’s the difference? She’s being mean to Sweet Bee, she should be punished the same way as anyone else.
Breathing in and out, I think back to my lessons on how to be normal, and by the time Berkleigh comes back in, I feel more in control.
“Her hair is so long, I bet she wiped herself with it.” But that wasn’t Taylor talking, that was Timmy Shaw, and Grandpa didn’t say anything about not hitting a boy.
When everyone around me starts laughing, I look up at Berkleigh and she knows. Her bottom lip trembles and I lose my entire mind.
Jumping out of my seat, I’m on top of Timmy before he even has time to know he’s about to lose a couple more teeth.
My right fist pummels his face, his tears and blood coating my arm and shirt and some even spurting on my face. It feels so good to get this amped up anger out of me, and even as adult arms are pulling me away from the blubbering jerk, I smile at Berkleigh. The look on her face is one of complete horror, and the punishment, both at school and at home, will be Hell on Earth, I’m sure of it.
But that’s okay. Totally worth it.
Red hot, boiling rage.
It’s not just a metaphor, it’s a physical sensation running through my veins. I’ve only felt it once before and that did not end well for me.
The first time I spilled blood, human blood, I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together and was amazed by the silky feel of it, surprised by the coppery smell that tickled my nose. Therighteousness of the scene in front of me was like the calm after the storm. I was seven and he had it coming.
The second time was even better. As soon as my knife penetrated flesh and the color crimson erupted across the beige sheets, I knew a chip of my humanity had just been peeled off and there was nothing I could do about it. I’d allowed that sudden white heat to invade my body like a flood of unwanted emotions, controlling my thoughts and actions. In doing so, I’d failed my mission.
I was eleven years old the second time I tried to kill my father, stabbing him in the gut while he slept. That’s the problem with anger. You don’t control it, it controls you, and that’s when mistakes are made.
But I learned my lesson after that.
My father healed up—apparently I’d missed every vital organ—even patting me on the head and telling me he was proud that I wasn’t a pussy and had the balls to fight back. Then he sent me to his brother Tony’s cabin. At first, I thought it was some form of fatherly payback until I overheard the real reason had everything to do with a tiny blonde haired angel who became my personal devil.
“If you’re gonna fuck up, do it right.” I had no idea what he meant by that, at first, but I learned really fucking quickly.
That summer, I begged, over and over, for the devil to come find me because not even Hell could be worse than where I lived for almost two months. But when I came back to Blue Hills Grove, ready to start the sixth grade, the boy who’d tried to protect his favorite neighbor was gone. The hero who’d wanted to avenge his little Sweet Bee was just a distant memory.
In his place, a new me had been born and emotions were no longer a part of the package. It’s the year I turned eleven, but more importantly, it’s the year I turned into a monster. All because Berkleigh had tattled, my father had threatened her,and I tried to kill him. All because rage had consumed me and rational thought had evaded me.
The first two times I’d shed human blood was for Berkleigh, and now it seems history will be repeating itself.
For two months that summer, I was rewired much in the same way the Marines reprogrammed me seven years later.
At age thirty, I thought I was done with feelings. Love, hate, anger, disappointment, guilt. None of those things existed inside me anymore.
Until now.
As I sit in my armchair facing a sleeping Berkleigh and protected under the veil of darkness, that red hot, boiling rage is back.
