The Devil's Monologue Read online

  The Devil's Monologue

  3 Years Later

  By Kimberly Fuller

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  or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Copyright © 2013 by Kimberly Fuller

  All rights reserved. Published by Kimberly Fuller

  First Edition, 2013

  Printed in the U. S. A.

  3 Years Later Series

  H. A. Carter

  The Devil's Monologue

  The Devil's Monologue

  3 Years Later

  By Kimberly Fuller

  This installment is dedicated to all the bullies

  in the world (you know who you are),

  who give us hope that for every wrong.....

  there has to be a right......

  "Even Grown Men Cry: A Declaration"

  I have shed more tears than droplets fall from the sky

  My well is empty, I can no longer cry

  Do not digress

  Pain still resides

  Crushing, gripping, constant restricting

  Never lifting

  I push. I shove. I kick down that door

  I can't let this win anymore

  Out, out damn spot of sorrow

  I want you gone, today, not tomorrow

  Leave me and set me free

  I'm over this hurtful menagerie

  I want still to cry, I really do

  But I will not cry for you

  1

  Pride is a hard pill to swallow. No matter how much sugar coating you try to dip it in, or how much booze you drown it in, the painful choking sensation never subsides or goes away. I've choked down my share of humble pie these days, being left with nothing but a mouthful of bitter resentment and shame. Not exactly a tasty treat in my book. Admitting you are wrong is often the most freeing and damning act of humanity one can conquer. Even after all I've been though, I do still like to think I have some humanity left. Even the bad guy has his moments, doesn't he?

  I could be wrong though. You frequently have to be wrong in order to realize what is right. Sometimes that realization comes too late, and more often than not comes at a great price. Mine, was the ultimate price. But, after what I did, I guess I deserve it. Maybe...

  Looking back I try to remember where it all began. Just how does one become the proverbially “bad guy”? I'm not the result of some crazy experiment gone wrong or an evil alien hell bent on destroying the world. I was just a boy trying to turn into a man. So where did I turn “bad”? For one, I never got caught or got in trouble, even when I was blatantly at fault. That was solely because of the Old Man. Everyone respected him, therefore everyone respected me. They just did what I said, without question.

  Almost everyone, anyway.

  I guess this was the reason I developed such a Napoleon complex, minus the short stature. It didn't exactly earn me any cool points, but I had power. Power sometimes brings out the worst in people.

  I was so arrogant my own father became disgusted by my very presence. Praise turned into resentment as he watched me begin the life he had always wanted for himself. It wasn't the life I wanted, but if it got the things I craved, I choked it down. You know, humble pie, and all. But, it never mattered what I wanted anyway. As long as it kept the Old Man off my ass, I did what he wanted. I became who he wanted to be. Sort of, anyway.

  The Old Man was the biggest hard ass I ever knew. He'd never admit to anyone but me what a disappointment he thought I was, or how I turned into such a failure in his eyes. I bet they could tell though. Secrets don't stay buried forever in small towns like Stillwater. Especially after the Old Man started paying attention to what he was doing more than me, praising him, comparing the two of us like we were actual...no matter. What mattered was that Ma saw it too. She couldn't handle the Old Man's secrets sometimes, and of course there were all of the “special” kept secrets about him and that whore we were never allowed to speak of. It was all just the beginning to a tragic end. I just didn't know it.

  I was in high school when it all started to go downhill. Everyone around me thought I was perfect, maybe a little flawed on the inside, but perfect on the outside nonetheless. During that time, I wasn't exactly considered a scholar. I wasn't stupid, despite what some people thought, I just didn't give a fuck about teachers telling me what to do. I mean, really? Who did they think they were anyway? I ended up paying for that mindset though.

  Women were another complicated matter. The only ones I seemed to be able to keep around worth a shit were the ones I paid, or coerced, of sorts. The one I wanted didn't exactly want me, leaving me swimming in uncharted emotional waters. I just couldn't get through to her like all the rest. She was just...different. She made me feel flawed through all of my apparent perfection. Sometimes I think a part of me even hated her.

  My most noticeable actual flaw, however, was my new found unsteadiness on and off the field. I had become a rotten apple that hadn't even fallen from the tree yet. Drinking became my favorite past time, and whiskey was my best friend. Sadly, the booze was starting to take it's toll on my balance and left my hands shaky and uncoordinated. Not something that will gain you a football scholarship no matter how much of a show boat you were on the field. The Old Man was sure pissed about that turn of events. He threw me against the wall that night. Even after he found out I had taken one his bottles of Johnnie he kept hidden from my mom the night before the game, he still couldn't put any blame on himself. I'll never forget how he screamed in my face saying how much he didn't want me to end up like him. He was right. I didn't want to end up like him, but I didn't want to live his dreams either. The Old Man put all his chips on me getting into college football and being the great success he wasn't. He didn't even know I hated that fucking game.

  I hated a lot of things back then. I hated school. I hated football. I hated him.

  All I wanted was to get through high school and start making my own rules. Ones that didn't include what the Old Man had to say. I was prepared to do whatever it took to get the hell out of Dodge right after graduation.

  I admit I used to be quite the manipulator myself. Now that I think about it, I don't even know if I really gave a shit about anyone else during that time. People were just my tools to get the things that I wanted. If I had to step on a few toes, then so be it. If I had to break those toes on the way, who cares! They'd recover. They'd get over it. Everyone gets over it with time, right?

  I had no idea then that some people don't get over it. Some people lack that ability to see an asshole for what he's worth and just ignore him. Some people don't know how to move on without the pain. Looking back, I wish I had just been ignored by some people. Perhaps, my humble pie consumption would have meant more to me had I been on the receiving end of shit more often. Perhaps, I would have changed sooner instead of being forced to change in the darkness of Hell. I'm not even sure if I really have changed or if I'm just becoming used to the constant flow of remembrance. I actually kind of like remembering. Beats the crap out of the alternative.

  You know, I don't even have an excuse for the way I behaved to other people. It wasn't that I was picked on in school because I was usually the bully. It wasn't that I had a rough childhood filled with sad sob stories to tell Oprah. Granted, the Old Man did have a firm hand and a few choice words when he was drunk, but it wasn't anything I couldn't shove under the rug. I wasn't the loner or the outcast. Hell, I wasn't even the fat kid. That's the sad part, I had everything anyone could ask for, and threw it all away for greed and jealousy. I lost my parent's res
pect and didn't blink an eye because I thought I didn't need them anyway. I did unspeakable things to the girl I thought I loved and smiled the next day because I had finally gotten from her what I wanted. Worst of all, I tortured my own flesh and blood on a daily basis just to ease my own insecurities. None of those things mattered. It wasn't until I lost my soul that I even considered what I had become. Just another cruel monster.

  I want to say, I changed it all in the nick of time. I want to say, I made a difference right when it counted. I want to say these things, but I know now that saying them doesn't make them real. The true hard painful pill of it all, is that I did nothing until I had lost everything. I choked down that bitter pill with an ocean of solemn disgrace, and saw myself for the first time. That moment, was the morning I woke up and realized I was dead.

  2

  I do have to admit, Hell has kind of grown on me. Pain has become almost a sweet pleasure. It helps to replace the longing for any of the old human vices I used to crave. It also helps to cover up the resentment that constantly tore at my heart when I was living. At least in Hell I don't have to deal with anyone's bullshit. I don't have to live up to anyone's standards. No more being the bad ass king of the jerks down here. Here, I'm just a washed up drop in Satan's piss bucket of monsters. Such an overwhelming sensation of superiority mixed with the realization that you are shit on the devil's boot. Half the time I don't know whether to laugh or puke.

  I often wonder if others down here feel the same way. I wonder if he feels the same way. Yes, there are those times that I feel insane and scream to repent, hating beyond hate at the things I've done. Those times that I know for sure I've gone off the deep end and become completely bat shit crazy. Those times are what hurts the most. I don't deny the things I've done to deserve being locked in Hell. I know I'm a piece of shit and there is no redemption for me.

  The first step to recovery is acceptance, right? I learned that when the Old Man joined AA for the hundredth time. Every time we'd go through a few glorious months of, “I'm sorry”, and “I'll never do it again”. Who the fuck was he ever kidding? Drunken Bastard. I both loved and hated that man more than anyone. For a good chunk of my life he was my every reason for living and my every reason to commit suicide. No one could build me up or hurt me more than him. The things I did to make him happy...

  The Old Man certainly knew the key to nonchalant motivation, whether it be for good or evil or somewhere strangely in between. Ugh, there's that guilty heavy horse shit suffocating me yet again. Jacky, you sick son of a bitch, how could you have done that to another human being? My mind plays stabbing games at my heart and soul. I wish I could get it through my thick skull that I'm already dead and no one cares what I've done. That's a plus to being in Hell, you know. No one cares what I do, what I say, what I think. I have no more reasons or motivations for being anything other than what stares grimly back at me in my cracked mirror. Just you and me, Jack, I say to my reflection. Just us and an eternity of reliving the past.

  *

  “Jacky! Get your ass in here!”

  A booming slur screamed in my ear from down the hall. I knew whatever I had done this time was going to get me a slap to the back of the head, maybe even a shove through the doorway. Time will tell. Sometimes I just wish I knew what it was I had done. Maybe next time I'll actually do it. I bet he'd like that. I miss the way he used to be, I thought sadly.

  “Just a minute, Dad!” I called back, knowing full well that would only anger him more, but I didn't give two shits these days about what he thought. Too much time has passed, and I have done far too much for me to care what he thinks. The days of pleasing Daddy were over. I knew a lot of things were over lately.

  The Old Man never used to get so angry with me, even when he was drunk. So much has changed these last few months. None of it good. I know that dirty whore and her freak has changed him into this bitter puppet that I call “Dad”. Why won't my mom put a stop to this? She has to know what's going on? It's so embarrassing!

  “Jacky! I said now, you little fuck!”

  I heaved a deep sigh and got up out bed. I shoved my hand through the gaping fist shaped hole in the front of my broken bedroom door and started down the hall towards the spare bedroom. Last door on the left. I knew for sure that's where I'd find him, wreaking of whiskey and cigars. Another night of “overtime”, I'm guessing. I wonder if they bother to get a hotel or just fuck in the parking lot.

  His “overtime” nights all end up the same. He comes home late, half crocked, wreaking of cheap perfume and smoke, and pining in his “office” of forlorn. His “office” being nothing more than a half empty room filled with his old high school trophies and newspaper articles of “what could have been” memories scattered amongst a dozen dust covered boxes that hadn't been moved since I was knee high to a stack of bibles. Occasionally an article or two would end up downstairs, or a trophy would get dusted and displayed in the living room for a few days, but other than that the room was a tomb of broken dreams. He frequently reminded me of why his dreams were shattered every time I walked through that doorway. Somehow my mere existence deprived the world of his greatness. Apparently sex ed didn't exist in his time because God forbid should he ever take responsibility for his own pubescent actions behind the bleachers. I mean, how was he to know screwing the cheerleader would cause a baby? Teen pregnancy was just an urban legend, right? Fucking Jerk.

  The door made a slight creak as I opened it slowly, cautiously. The Old Man was slumped over his worn leather chair, clutching an old tattered year book. The aroma of whiskey was so thick that I coughed hoarsely, both choking on it's heaviness and easing in its comforting familiar taste as it tickled my tongue with each breath. I suddenly felt ashamed to be standing in front of him.

  “Yeah, Dad?” I said just above a whisper, hoping he really wouldn't hear me and just pass out like usual. I wasn't sure if I could take a confrontation tonight.

  He roused only slightly, groaning and snorting as he did so, drool already puddling on his fake wooden desk, “Jacky, you little piece of shit. You! It's all your fault! All you and....that damn... I could have....we could've...been...”

  Here we go again, I thought. It always came to this. Every f-ing time! I braced myself, waiting to hear the onslaught of disappointments and shoulda coulda wouldas. It honestly used to make me hate myself, pushing me to be the best. At the very least to be better than him. I knew the real reason why my dad drank constantly and ended up in his “office”. It wasn't because of me. It wasn't because of my manic depressive mother either. It was because of him and that slut. All he ever thinks about anymore is, “what if”. Trust me, Dad, I doubt your life would have been any peachier if you had been with her.

  Now he's hell bent on reliving the past. I even caught the Old Man on the phone with her the other night. In our own house even! Doesn't he even care anymore?!

  I don't get it. He never used to care about them, cursing their existence, complaining about every dime forcibly spent to ease her burdens of raising a loser. It used to actually make me feel special that he cared for Mom and I more, choosing us instead of them. My grandpa wouldn't have had it any other way thankfully, spreading rumors about that whore to the entire church when the Old Man started talking to her again. Pop Pop was so convincing that one horn dog decided to take it upon himself to help her “repent”. He even got her to go on a date with him. Sure wish I could have seen the look on old Vern's face though when he discovered she wasn't actually the repenting type.

  A slight snort emerged from the Old Man's body as I realized he had succumbed to his drunken slumber, a warm thread of liquid oozing down the side of his face. I lucked out tonight. I waited only a few seconds before leaving him to his withering dreams. Sleep tight, Jerk.

  I trudged down the hall, passing my mother's room, glancing only briefly. She was sleeping soundly on top of the flower print comforter tucked in with careful precision around the squared mattress. She sleeps so much these days. I'm not
even sure she's eaten today, or yesterday for that matter. Her long wavy blonde hair was thinning out beyond recognition, dangling limp across her bony shoulders like brittle straw. I hadn't noticed just how thin she had gotten recently. I sure wished the medication Dr. Walls started her on would get her out of this slump. I hated seeing her like this, like nothing matters. I also hated that she didn't care about defending me. Never once has she stood up to the Old Man. Seriously, Mom? Not even a , “Shut up, Jack”,or “Leave him alone”? Nothing? I guess I wasn't worth her time either anymore. I wonder if she agrees with him. What dreams of hers did I ruin? I wondered.

  I eased down the stairs and made my way into the kitchen. I wasn't hungry, but needed something to keep my mind occupied. Aside from thinking about my drunk ass father and zombie mother, all I could think about was him... Never in my life have I hated someone so much. I'd do just about anything to hurt that little bastard for taking my father away. Anything.

  3

  It used to be so important to me. Getting back at him for ruining my life was all I ever thought about. It's practically all I lived for. Revenge, football, and girls. Mostly revenge, less football, only one girl in particular, and never in that exact order. You know, I'm not all that certain it's still not important to me, just not as much fun.