H. A. Carter
3 Years Later
By Kimberly Fuller
No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording,
or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © 2012 by Kimberly Fuller
All rights reserved. Published by Kimberly Fuller
First Edition, August 2012
Smashwords Edition
For my children...may you never feel the agony of losing your humanity,
and always value the worth of your life.
H. A. Carter
3 Years Later
By Kimberly Fuller
1
They say I am a killer.
A monster. A psycho. A freak. The endless list goes on and on.
But sometimes what They say isn't always the truth.
The truth is, They were the ones who tormented me, bullied me, laughed at me, and ridiculed me.
They murdered my soul.
That's why I did what I did, and that's why my mother cries.
2
I picture my mother sitting silently weeping every night at the awful things I had done. I picture her staring longingly at crumpled old photographs of me, wishing to turn back the hands of time and fix what went wrong as though that would solve all of her sadness. I wish she understood that she wasn't the one who went wrong. None of this was ever her fault. She did the best she could. I made my own choices, good or bad as they were.
Oh, my poor sweet mother. I do my best to speak to her when I am allowed, but I would love to see her smile again. She's sure aged a great deal since that tragic day. The worry lines creeping across her once polished cheek, the skin now weathered with quiet agony. Even her raven hair has begun to lose its confident luster, tucked away in a quick, ill-forgotten ponytail, exposing the fresh wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. Nothing like the still semi-youthful looking woman who showed up in front of the stone church with a fearless demeanor on the outside, but screaming in unfathomable torture on the inside. She pushed away her hurt and rose from her painful ashes like an unbreakable phoenix as she stepped in front of the firing range of angry parents and faculty at their funeral just a few years past. That single act of valor on my mother's part both fills me with great pride and excruciating sadness. Had the tables been turned, could I have been as brave as she? Would I rise above the pain, or flee like a coward to swim in my torment? After all these years, I'm still not sure if I could have done what she did. All these years.
I can't believe it's been nearly three years now. I seem to have forgotten all sense of time Here, which is quite easily done. Here, just yesterday I was walking to school. Just yesterday I was opening that heavy door of fate. Just yesterday I was...
Yes, time is all but forgotten Here, but memories, memories like those are in great abundance.
Here you're not allowed to forget. They won't let you. Definitely not Here.
3
Their burial still remains fresh in the confines of my mind. The day black and cold, both outside and in my heart. The air was thick with sorrow and heavy with loss. The whole town it seemed had come to grieve for the fallen ones. They had buried four of the five that day. Four together, one outcast, shunned from acceptance even after death. To top it off, they were burying them all next to each other with snappy little matching coffins and coordinating headstones. Yet another knife twisting consequence to my actions. I guess it was their way of holding on to that last spark of hope that they may rest in peace together. Makes me sick.
I can so clearly picture the townspeople all standing in front of the church as it began to mist and rain, mixing with their salty tears and clinging to their faces. Tears of grief. Tears of torment. Tears that they all knew should have been prevented. If only someone would have known what I was capable of. If only someone would have stopped me. If only someone would have listened. No one really thought I'd actually go through with it. I guess they were wrong. It's funny, you know, what everyone knows after the fact. Geniuses and prophets always seem to emerge in the aftermath just in time to declare they had known all along, but never thought to tell. What crap! You people all thought you knew what happened, what my motives were, but had you truly known the truth there would be no, “I told you so”. Despite all my condescending rage against them, I cannot deny feeling horrific guilt at my actions. The pain bursts through my insides in a constant flow of razor-like cuts of remorse.
I ached to apologize, to scream and cry out, “I'm sorry for what I've done!”
I ached to wake up from this nightmare.
How could I have done this? How could I have hurt them all?! How could I have hurt her?
My Joanna.
She was my muse, my first crush, my best friend...
Yet, still, I hurt her. I did this! But, it wasn't just her that I hurt and grieved for. I hurt them all in one way or another. Every one of them suffered at my hand. I caused enough pain for everyone to endure for a lifetime. Or an eternity in my case.
And there, in the cold wet mist, they stood before the church three years ago. Those left behind to continue suffering my actions. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and everyone else the victims shared their lives with. They all had to gather around gleaming white, ironically angelic looking coffins asking why. Why it had to be this person to die. Why it couldn't have happened to someone else's child. Why couldn't I have just died instead?
Each mourner so carefully dressed and pressed in their Sunday best. Their coal black suits and dresses being slowly dampened by the dewy weeping air that mourned beside them. They bowed their heads, cupped their hands, and prayed. Prayed it would never happen again. Not here. Not anywhere.
It's times like this that I realize I deserve to be where I am. That's why They won't let you forget days like that. They want you to remember the pain you caused. They want you to always know how terrible you truly are. Ignorance is bliss. And that is a sweet privilege that I will never taste.
As hard as I've tried, even after the years have gone by, I can't forget. Those faces are forever cauterized and scarred into the depths of my memories, never to heal. Twisted, torn, angered, and betrayed. Some say that betrayal is even worse than murder. Why should it not be fitting that I betrayed them all? Especially my mother. My poor mother. She was always the one who truly believed in me. She was the one who always thought I'd do something great with my life. She never listened to the not-so-quiet whispers of what a freak I was, how I just didn't fit in, and how I would never amount to anything. Perhaps she should have listened to them after all. Oh, how I wish I could
have proven her right.
My mother was once a wonderfully vibrant woman, before I broke her spirit. Her bravery rivaled that of any war hero that ever existed, and continues to do so. The day she attended their
funeral with her head held high, even while her heart slowly died inside was an insurmountable feat of courage. I was so very proud of her bravery while the others shunned her with their intense anger and fury. They didn't understand. It wasn't her fault. She didn't make the decision that day. I did! I did this!
It was I who made them cry.
It was I who caused their pain.
I, who was unconvincing!
I, who could not be reckoned with!
It was I who changed their lives.
But, they were still convinced that it was she who stood by my side.
Yet, after every crucible they put her through, she chose to stand by their sides and grieve with them for their lost souls. I never knew how strong my mother could be until that day. I had always known she was a fighter and a
survivor, but few could have lived through her trials and tribulations and still kept their head held as high as she did. She mourned along side those parents she barely knew, and for their children she knew even less.
My mother's compassion and empathy was not welcomed lightly by her fellow parents, however. What I viewed as an intense act of bravery on her part was seen as something more sinister. If anything, it was considered more of a slap in the face than a friendly gesture. A vicious cold-hearted act of contemptuous slap. This slap stung to no one more than Jackson Douglas, “Big Jack”. His
hometown hero of a son was one of the victims that grave day. Actually, he was to be my only prey until things got out of hand. I'd been desperately wanting to derail his arrogant crazy train since
freshman year.
Wait, I take that back. My entire life, I'd been wanting to rid myself of that asshole. To end his long standing reign of torment once and for all. However, the way in which it all came to pass was
never my original intent. Fuel to the fire. Like I said, things really did get out of hand...
4
The crumpled walnut colored handout trembled slightly in her hand as she approached the large stone church. The concrete steps were just a few feet away as she hustled to enter the thick wooden doors before being seen.
“I can't goddamn believe you would actually show your face here after what that monster of yours had done!” a loud angered growl emerged from the crowd gathered on the church's manicured lawn.
Jackson's six foot two, muscled frame barreled in front of her as soon as he saw her approach the front of the church. She tried to avoid his threatening taunts and keep her eyes focused on the door, but with Jackson, avoidance often became impossible when he was on a determined rampage, so blatantly used to getting his way.
“I'm just here to say sorry and give my condolences, Jackson. Please, at least let me pay my respects. I think I'm owed that,” my mother said with reserved strength.
“Sorry?!” Jackson half gasped, half laughed in absurdity.
She gazed down toward the ground, staring at a dark patch of wet concrete on the sidewalk, silently pleading for him to just turn and walk away. She had hoped he would sympathize with her instead of condemning so quickly, but Jackson does not sympathize well.
“You are owed nothing! Nothing! You have no right to be here, respect or not. My son was going to make something of himself! He had a chance to get the hell out of this town and now he's gone because of you!”
There was such ferocity in his voice that her breath caught deep within her throat, choking her with every inflection. Chills raced through her calm demeanor, afraid of what he might say next in the midst of the now attentive crowd. Tiny fear-filled goosebumps rippled up and down her arms amplified by the chilly breeze rustling through the air.
The other unaware parents began to now fixate on the two. Their piercing eyes blazing with both fear and anger as they now glared at her. One woman gave her a deathly icy stare, while others began to whisper rapidly to each other. Their volume increasing like locusts across the church yard. Everyone's curiosity keeping them glued to the scene Jackson was now making. His hatred toward my mother and I ran far deeper than the others'. His entire life had revolved around his precious JJ, and now there was nothing left to fill the empty void but broken dreams and resentment.
Jackson towered malevolently over her. The thick smell of his cheap cologne, mixed with the pungent scent of stale cigars, suffocated the air around her. He hovered over her delicate face, his breath steaming in the cool foggy air. The once golden brown of his eyes now grew crimson as he came within inches of her soft skin. Just the slightest aroma of whiskey whispered across her nose with each breath he took. A brief moment of quiet hesitation surrounded them both as they stared into each others eyes. Her deep swimming blue eyes iced over quickly as she glared back at Jackson. She was never one to be pushed around, especially by him, and he knew it. Backed into a corner, this delicate flower quickly turned from butterfly to bear at the blink of an eye.
Her voice grew deep and loathsome, “I cannot see my son either, Jack. In case you've forgotten that. He was all I had in this godforsaken town. All I had! You are not the only one who lost somebody,” she peered over Jackson's shoulder at his wife, Sarah, “at least you still have someone left. I'm completely alone. Again.”
Jackson lowered his eyes, briefly defeated. Shameful sadness washed across his face seconds before he returned her cold stare. Jackson just couldn't go down without a fight, and decided to deliver
one final low blow.
He leaned in close, his course lips almost grazing her ear, “Your son being gone is no loss, Trina. That thing should have never been born.”
Jackson turned harshly away. A smirk of triumph danced across his face as he stomped into the church, filing in with the others.
Trina kept her composure just long enough to see Jackson's tailored black suit fade away through the doorway. All her strength came crashing down in one intense explosion. She clutched her chest tightly, nearly losing her balance, choking on the pain of Jackson's last comment. Bright silver bubbles swirled through her vision. She bent over slightly, afraid she may vomit on the cold gray sidewalk. Warm, salty tears crept slowly down her pale cheeks. She looked like a starved child being punished for eating a stale piece of bread that was thrown for the dogs. That's how they treated her, worthy of nothing more than their scraps of forced pity, starving her of her own grief. No one stopped to see if she was okay. No one even gave her a second look. It was out of her control, and she could not escape it.
I could imagine her pain, her agony, as she hugged herself alone in front of that church. I should have been there to hug her. Someone should have been there to hug her. I wanted so badly to make Jackson pay for what he said to my mother, but I knew he was right. I was no loss to anyone. If anything, it was a great gain that I was gone from society for good.
She dried her tears, smoothed down her navy blue dress, raised her head once again, and entered the somber building. Despite how she felt inside, she would not let them see her break. That was a satisfaction they would just have to live without.
5
The deafening echo of the town clock striking noon in the distance still rings in my ears from that fateful day. It was a Monday.
I remember deciding then, what I was going to do. That day my belief in God ran dry, and I took life in my own hands. I made the decision then, for better or worse. Sometimes I still wonder why I was so certain of my choices back then. Why I was so sure that was the only way.
Torment.
That's one reason why I did it.
Embarrassment.
Hatred.
Rejection.
Vengeance...
I can go on and on about the small seemingly minute reasons that when grouped together create a force so malevolent that I'm not sure could have been stopped, even if they had believed me to be dangerous. Every day I had to endure those emotions, like it or not. Some days were worse than others. I don't really remember many days in which I didn't feel like an out-cast and made shameful to be alive. You tell me, who aspires to be rejected in life? Not I. I'm still unsure, even to this day, as to why I was so disliked. Why it was me who had to be the center of their ridicule? Why he hated me so much? I never did anything to any of them until that day. Perhaps, it was just my very presence in the world they despised. How horrid of a being do you have to be for others to hate your very essence in the same room? Am I really that bad?
6
“Carter, I'm going to fucking kill you!”
“What did I do now?”
“I know it was you who told Mr. Ryan about the test yesterday, Asshole! That's what you did!”
Jack Jr's face was bearing down on mine. His thick arrogant breath invading my nostrils, making me almost choke. I could feel the heat of anger and rage coming off his chin as he talked down to me. JJ, was a big guy, like his dad. He stood 6'2 and weighed in
over 200lbs of pure muscle. JJ towered over my mediocre 5' 9 frame. I was built more like my mother, small but lean. He was the poster boy for the all American jock. The fucking high school football hero right here in front of me. Oh lucky day! Can I have an autograph?
Football hero or not, JJ was not the brightest crayon in the box. As a matter of fact he was more an earthy tone at best. Yes, I had seen him cheat on Mr. Ryan's history test. Hell, anyone with a set of eyes could have seen him cheat on that test. He wasn't too slick about it either. However, it wasn't me who ratted on him. It was Joanna. She said she was finally sick and tired of him always getting out of school work and walking all over people just because he played football. She said she was just tired of all of them, we both were. I wasn't going to tell JJ that it was her, of course. It's not like he'd believe me if I did anyway. Blaming me was just second nature to him. I was an easy scapegoat and always had been. I probably always will be. That thought made me really hate my life.
“I didn't do it, JJ,” I said quietly to the smooth linoleum floor. I didn't want to look him in the eyes. It always seemed to make things worse when I tried to stand up for myself. So, I just gave up these days. Really, what more could he possibly do to me?
“Don't lie to me, you little shit!” he growled, “Mr. Ryan's making me retake the test before the football game. If I don't pass, I don't play!”
His thick trunk like arm swung against my chest hard, pinning me to the wall. I couldn't move
nor did I dare try. The weight of his behemoth arm crushing against my rib cage.
It will be over soon. Just close your eyes and take it, I said to myself.
H. A. Carter Page 1
