A Family of Violence Read online

  As he caught a glimpse of the bathroom to his right, Stanley said, “I have to pee. I'll be fast.”

  Julia said, “Okay, we can wait for you.”

  Stanley shook his head and said, “No, no. You know how full it gets in the afternoon, right? Just save me a spot in line. I'll sneak up to you guys.”

  With a raised brow, Michael slowly nodded and said, “Alright, sure. We'll be right up there waiting for you, champ. Don't take too long.”

  As he walked ahead in reverse, Daniel shouted, “Hey! You better not get us kicked out of line, either!”

  Under his breath, Stanley whispered, “Asshole...”

  ***

  Stanley stood at the doorway of the dreary restroom. The gray walls matched the grungy tile flooring. There were four sinks to his right. The mirrors above the sinks were cloudy and cracked. To his left, there were three urinals followed by three stalls. To his utter surprise, the room was empty – except for the child standing near the urinal.

  Stanley stared at the child with a clenched jaw. His thoughts delved into the darkest crevices of his mind, plunging into depravity. Five years younger than Stanley, the black-haired boy was alone and vulnerable. The child was oblivious of Stanley's presence, trying his best to keep his urine in the urinal. He was at an amusement park swamped with people. The boy and his parents obviously felt safe. What could possibly go wrong in a public space?

  Stanley sniffled as he closed the door behind him. He bit his bottom lip as he realized the door did not have a traditional lock. He could not turn a knob and secure the door, he needed a key from a janitor or a security guard. Yet, the setback was a minor inconvenience to his plans. At the same time, he wasn't absolutely certain about his sinister plot.

  As he stared at the door, Stanley whispered, “What am I thinking? I can't do this. I can't do it to him. He's just a kid. He's even younger than me.”

  As he pulled his zipper up, the boy asked, “Who are you talking to?”

  Stanley hopped and gasped, startled by the child's mellifluous voice – sweet like honey streaming down a mountain of sugar. During his self-talk, he didn't realize the boy had finished urinating. The child stared at him with a furrowed brow, baffled by Stanley's erratic behavior. He was not frightened, though, considering Stanley's young age.

  Stanley shut his eyes and said, “I'm... I'm not doing anything.”

  The boy took one step forward and said, “Okay...”

  Through his gritted teeth, Stanley said, “Please, just wait a second. Wait, okay? Don't come any closer, kid.”

  “What?”

  “Don't come any closer. I need... I need to think about this.”

  “I was just going to wash my hands. What are you talking about?”

  Truth be told, Stanley could not answer the question without sounding insane. His mind was being pummeled by a thousand thoughts a second. Thoughts of blood, violence, and murder stampeded through his fracturing brain, trampling his conscience. Hurt him, kill him, hurt him, Stanley thought.

  The boy said, “You're scaring me.”

  Eyes brimming with tears, Stanley scowled and said, “You should be scared of me...”

  The boy yelped as Stanley hurtled forward. Stanley struck the kid in the head with a swift jab. He pummeled the child with a barrage of punches – one, two, three, four... ten. Stanley was not the most powerful teen, lanky and thin, but each hit was fueled by his hidden savagery. His strength was amplified by his uncontrollable rage.

  Dazed by the beating, the child leaned on the urinal and whimpered. Blood dripped from his nose, streaming down his lips and chin. Like a leaky faucet, the blood plopped on the floor – drop-by-drop. A small bruise materialized on his cheek and his nose was swollen. He would certainly survive the beating, but he was in trouble.

  Breathing heavily, Stanley asked, “What... What am I doing?” He shook his head and tugged on his hair, throwing a tantrum of confusion. Shifting moods, Stanley glowered and sternly said, “No, I'm not doing anything wrong. This is your fault. You're weak and I'm... I'm just being myself. There's nothing wrong with that. If... If I want blood, I can take it.”

  Stanley grabbed a fistful of the boy's hair, then he dragged the child into the last stall in the restroom. He pushed the child to the floor. The boy landed beside the toilet. The blood oozing from his nostrils dripped on the grimy tile floor. The stream of blood was not enough to satisfy Stanley's thirst, though.

  As he wheezed, Stanley kicked the child's tender face – punting his head like a football. Using all of his body weight, he stomped on the boy's head. The child squirmed and convulsed, then he fell unconscious after the sixth kick. Unconscious was not enough, though. Five brutal kicks followed, each more devastating than the last.

  Palms firmly planted on the stall walls, Stanley leaned back and examined the damage. He struggled to catch his breath, gasping for air like a drowning child. As someone usually on the other end of the bullying, the strenuous exercise caught him by surprise. The sudden surge in emotions startled him, too. His conscience was trying to fight back.

  Stanley sobbed as he stared at the young boy. The innocent child was brutalized – beaten until he was black and blue. Blood dripped from his nose and gushed from a laceration on his cheek. The child seemed to be breathing, but Stanley could not tell for certain. The boy was limp and unconscious. He snored with each breath, snorting and gurgling.

  Teary-eyed, Stanley said, “I'm... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. It was an accident, I swear. I don't know what happened. I just lost control of myself. Please, don't tell anyone. Don't tell them it was me...”

  Stanley wheezed as he wept. He stumbled into the neighboring stall, immediately staggering to his knees. After a croaking gag, he vomited in the toilet. The chunks of food swirled down the pipe with the push of a lever. As much as the violence made him sick, he was sad to see his funnel cake depart. He rarely indulged in the amusement park delicacy.

  Legs like noodles, Stanley returned to the last stall. He gazed at the child and pondered the worrisome situation. Thanks to Ed and Kat, Richie's body would never be discovered. The boy, however, was barely clinging to life in a public bathroom stall. He couldn't flush him down the toilet. Finish the job, he thought, or run. Juggling the limited options was more difficult than he imagined.

  Leaving the child alive would surely cause problems in the future. The boy had a short conversation with his attacker, so he would likely remember his face. On the other hand, killing him would cause a larger media uproar. The boy would not be able to talk, but the police would have a motive to vigorously pursue the case. It was a lose-lose situation.

  Stanley held his foot over the boy's throat and said, “I... I have to... I have to put you out of your misery. I have to kill you. That's what I have to do. That's what Ed and Kat would do.”

  The violent teenager bit his bottom lip as he placed more pressure on the boy's neck. The child barely responded with a shudder as he struggled to breathe. Before he could stomp the child to death, Stanley staggered in reverse. He shook his head as he closed the stall behind him.

  Stanley whispered, “I can't do it. I'm sorry. Please, forgive me.”

  ***

  The confused teenager shambled towards the sink. The sink generated a garble of noise loud enough to distort his whimpers. He washed his hands and face, trying to rub the blood and filth away with lukewarm water. His time was exhausted. He knew his parents would start searching for him at any second.

  Stanley's eyes widened as the restroom door swung open. A man walked into the restroom, smiling and waving at the young teenager – amiable. Nervous, Stanley returned the smile and wave. As the man strolled towards a urinal, unaware of the brutalized child in the stall, Stanley scampered out of the restroom.

  Dashing pass the merry families and raucous groups of friends, Stanley sprinted uphill towards the Shriek-and-Creak attraction. He raced through the lanes in his brain, trying to sort through his thoughts. He searched for an ex
cuse – any excuse. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. Stanley slowed to a stroll as his family walked down the hill.

  With his arms away from his body, Daniel asked, “What the hell happened?”

  Julia snapped her fingers at the older sibling and said, “Watch your mouth, Daniel.” She turned towards the birthday boy and explained, “We were getting worried, sweetie. I had to pull these two out of line to come looking for you. What happened? What took you so long?”

  Stanley sniffled as he quickly examined his family. Daniel was annoyed, Julia was worried, and Michael was indifferent. None of them, however, were suspicious. A white lie could not hurt them like his fists hurt the child in the restroom – a white lie opened his escape route.

  Stanley held his hands to his stomach and said, “I'm not feeling good.”

  Julia pouted and said, “Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart. What's wrong?”

  “My stomach hurts a little. That's all.”

  Julia nodded and said, “Okay, okay.” She glanced at Michael and said, “We should go home. I think it's for the better.”

  Michael shrugged and said, “Sure, if that's what the kid wants.”

  “Come on, we barely did anything and the park won't close for a few more hours,” Daniel said. He glared at his younger brother and shook his head in disappointment. He patted his mother's shoulder and said, “At least let me stay. You guys go home now and I'll be home before dark. I promise.”

  Julia wrapped her arm around Stanley and said, “Fine. You better be home before dark. I don't want to stay up all night waiting for you.”

  Julia, Michael, and Stanley walked towards the exit. Julia coddled her son, rubbing his shoulders and fixing his hair. Stanley ignored her honeyed words. He only thought about the savage beating he inflicted on the child. Will he survive?–he thought.

  Chapter Six

  Contemplation

  Stanley sat on his bed and reflected, staring out his window. The falling sun penetrated the overcast sky, dousing the area with a few more minutes of sunshine. Kids scurried across the street, playing in the cul-de-sac. A car horn occasionally broke the jovial ambiance as the working parents returned home. Normality reigned supreme in the neighborhood.

  Stanley softly tapped the window and whispered, “What's happening to me? Why did I hurt him? Why?”

  The young teenager felt like he was trapped in his bedroom – the captive of an insane person. The world continued to move at a normal pace, following the regularly-scheduled program. A young teen was murdered, a child was beaten and taken to the brink of death, but the world did not stop moving. Would the world stop if they knew the truth?

  Teary-eyed, Stanley whispered, “No one forced me to do it this time. I did it, but I don't know why. Did I... Did I really kill him?” Tears streamed down his blushed cheeks as he sniffled. Stanley nervously smiled and asked, “What's happening to me? Who am I talking to?”

  The birthday boy nervously chuckled as he held his knuckle to his mouth. He quietly yelped, then he gazed at his hand. Black and blue, his knuckles were bruising from the beating he dished out. The bruises stung with the slightest touch. Yet, he felt numb to the violence. He was not immune to pain, but he was still struggling to cope with his apathy.

  Stanley sank into his bed and stared at the ceiling. He said, “It's not so bad. Maybe they were right. Maybe I'm just different. I'm not a bad person. They just don't understand me. I... I did it because I wanted to do it. I don't have to explain myself to anyone... not even myself.”

  Stanley flipped on his bed, then he turned on the television. He flipped to channel seven – the local news. The station was broadcasting a report about the presidential election. The report concerned a candidate discussing his penis size. Instead of discussing unemployment, national security, or global warming, reporters and candidates discussed the scientific correlation between the size of a man's hands and his penis. The report seemed like something out of a reality television show.

  As far as he could tell, there was no breaking news about Richie or the child at the amusement park. Richie was killed over a day ago and the child was beaten in a public location, but the mainstream media was not concerned with abused children – they were concerned with penises. If they don't care, why should I?–Stanley thought. He turned off the television, then he flung the control towards a mountain of laundry at the other side of the room.

  Stanley said, “I hope I killed him. Maybe it'll teach his parents to take care of their kid better next time. Maybe it'll... Maybe it'll help them. I killed him. There's nothing wrong with that. I'd kill him again if I had the chance.”

  Stanley chuckled as he thought about Richie and the child. He imagined his melodramatic mother barging into the room to break the news. He contorted his face, practicing the expression he would use in such an event – saddened, surprised, amused. She probably would not notice a difference. With a smirk plastered on his face, Stanley's head swayed as he dozed out of consciousness. What is it like to sleep?

  In his deepest slumber, he saw nothing. He could not see himself or any other person. He was dreaming about a dark abyss, a void swallowed by an impenetrable darkness. He could hear water in the distance – splashing, plopping, streaming.

  Stanley gasped as he awoke. He blinked erratically as he ran his fingers through his hair. With a glance to his right, he could see the sun had vanished – nighttime arrived. To his utter dismay, he could feel his wet underwear and shorts. He glanced down at his crotch and grimaced in disgust. He wet the bed, drenching his clothing and sheets in urine.

  Stanley muttered, “Shit...”

  The teenager hopped off the bed, pulling the sheets with him. In one swift movement, he pulled down his shorts and underwear. He hid the soiled garments at the bottom of the laundry pile – a mess to deal with at a later time. Like if nothing had happened, he changed into a new set of underwear and shorts. If he did not think about it, perhaps it did not happen – denial.

  Stanley sat at the edge of the bed and stared at the dusty floor. He whispered, “It was an accident. I drank too much water. That's all. It was not my fault. I'm... I'm a man.”

  Stanley glanced at the bedroom door as a loud banging sound echoed through the home. The sound of knocking on drywall was persistent.

  From downstairs, Michael shouted, “Stanley, get down here! We have to talk to you, boy!”

  Wide-eyed, Stanley whispered, “Oh, no...”

  ***

  Stanley sat at the kitchen table, twiddling his thumbs as he glanced around. He was visibly nervous, fidgety like a drug addict suffering from withdrawals. He felt like he was trapped in an interrogation room. Michael leaned on the archway with his arms crossed, Julia sat across the table with her fingers interlocked – the 'good cop, bad cop' routine.

  Julia bit her bottom lip, then she said, “Stanley, we got a call from Richie's mother. She told us...” She paused and shut her eyes, trying her best to keep her composure. She said, “I'm sorry. It's just hard to say this to a young man. Your friend, Richie, he's missing. His mother hasn't seen him since yesterday morning.”

  Michael coughed to clear his throat, then he said, “His mother told us he was with you yesterday. At least, that's what she remembers. You told us you didn't see him. So, what's going on? What's the truth?”

  Stanley despondently stared at the hardwood table. He thought about the benefits associated with telling the truth – freedom from his conscience. On the other hand, confessing to murder would likely lead to a criminal case and a stern conviction, which would take away his physical freedom. I can work around it, he thought.

  Stanley sighed, then he said, “I saw Richie for a while yesterday, but he was acting strange. He wanted to talk to some kids from school. They're bullies. He was acting like them, so I ditched him. That's all.”

  Michael asked, “Where?”

  “It was... It was at the mall. I think he was friends with those kids, so I ditched him. I thought everything was okay. No big deal, rig
ht?”

  “I thought you said you were in the woods? Remember, you lost your phone or you broke it in the woods? I'm sure you said something like that yesterday. You said you were in the forest, Stanley, don't lie to me.”

  Stanley nodded and said, “Yeah, yeah... I went to the woods by myself after I left the mall. I just wanted to be by myself. I didn't see Richie for the rest of the day.”

  Julia tilted her head and gazed into her son's eyes. She asked, “Sweetheart, are you telling the truth?”

  Stanley nervously chuckled and nodded – of course. He said, “Yes. I don't know what else to say. I mean, I hope he's okay. I wish I could help, but–”

  Michael interrupted, “You can. Richie's mom already called the police and they're going to start searching tonight and continue throughout the week. Now, you have school tomorrow, but I'm going to take you to Richie's house after. I want you to tell his mom and the cops what you just told us, you understand me?”

  Stanley glanced down at the table, strategizing his next move. He couldn't change his father's plan, his words were carved in stone. He could not conjure an excuse, either, or he'd create a maelstrom of suspicion. Before he could utter a word, the front door swung open.

  Daniel walked towards the kitchen with his palm planted on his forehead, perplexed. He said, “You... Shit, you won't believe what happened.”

  Julia shook her head and said, “I don't believe it. You should have been home an hour ago. Where were you? Hmm? Why didn't you answer your phone?”

  “I'm sorry. I was at the park, right? Before we could leave, we heard sirens and we saw all of these police officers and paramedics rushing past us. They went into one of the restrooms and they pulled this little boy out. This boy... This boy was beaten real bad, dad. I mean, I don't know if he was even breathing.”