WANTED 28
REVOLVER READER
37

What are little boys made of?

Time is not a line, but a series of now points. — Taisen Deshimaru

Peter was just hungry and only twelve months young and his bones broke. Not by accident, but by Father’s mighty right-handed grip and its cracking vice-like crush to the weightless, delicate left wrist that belonged to Peter. It bulged in deep purple. Recovery period five weeks.

It was in the kitchen and Peter was just hungry and Momma just wanted to feed him and Father just wanted to take Momma from under her apron and dress and panties and pump self-hatred out of a seething, pump-less piece of meat that dangled and whose only consequence was inciting Peter twenty-one months ago and nothing more. Momma married Father in fear of God’s word. Peter’s eyes did not discover Momma in the kitchen, but his ears made sense of a voice similar to hers. Frail and drained.

“Don’t touch him…”

Peter was just twenty-one and he had already protected himself from a consequence much like himself and charged into Pearl with exposed ire and she did not refuse him. He tore membranes that had remained intact, tissue that had been created to fit love, but did not expect such grating damage and her palms beat on his chest in stop motions her voice could not back up. She heard her dry throat clench into a choke and he beat his right-handed knuckles into the wall above her sweat soaked hair with a thunder that struck and crushed the Sodom he lived twenty years or so ago.

“I am not done yet…”

Peter was thirty-six years dead and his bone-dry hands tilted a 16 oz. watered down beer into his throat and it left a runny, mucus-like taste in his mouth, but the nausea that was a consequence of the night before dimmed and he was clear again or so he thought. That night he created for himself the possibility to disappear Father and drank his consciousness into unconsciousness and beat it into himself to visit the home, the kitchen, the Father.

“Why you got such a bloody look in your eye, Pete?” Gorgeous truly expected an answer, but it was like Peter to deflect and inject and to numb into his stream a sense of calm that did not last forever. A reaching and then a hollow grasp of thin air.

The steps were the same, only now emitted creaks that warned. The air was as stuffy, only now he was immune to its bothers. The door handle rotated and took a little push-pull-push the same, but now stopped dead an inch into opening.

“Who the goddamned hell is there?” Maybe the cigarettes, maybe the booze, but Father’s aitch’s now haitched with a hound’s growl. It sickened Peter to the skin beneath his skin and his veins now spoke to nerves previously unspoken to and he could feel the life inside him travel and travel. Father’s boot held the door at the inch and Peter broke into it with his own foot and the door flung apart at the bottom and swung Father into the ground. A small, rotten shard of wood, thick to the touch, was tucked into Father’s ankle like a pierced needle. Peter felt in his left wrist an unrecovered ache that seared into his mind a point twenty years ago that caused this consequence or so he thought. Father could see his son tower over him by the door, light burning an outline of his matured creation in his mind. But Peter did not move, he stood and thought and it made him still and useless. The shard in Father’s ankle created a confusion of infection. Blood and pus gathered infinitely and lasted until Peter snapped out of his brooding.

“Don’t touch him…” Momma whispered from outside of the kitchen, from upstairs or from the living room. Peter was just hungry and wanted Momma to feed him. He did not hear or see Momma again.