Progeny

Chapter One

The fear entered my room at a quarter past one that morning. The door creaked open, rusty from the years of continued overuse. He stood silhouetted from the hallway light. I knew what was beneath his robe, but he didn’t know what was beneath my pillow. ‘As usual, say anything and I’ll kill you, understand?’ But the question itself implied I could only nod my head. He began to disrobe not letting go of the whiskey bottle, as I undressed my own innocence, the white t-shirt and the tidy-whities. He undid his belt like so many times before, the light from my night light glistened with a smirk of betrayal. ‘Come here,’ he waved over, gripping the neck of the whiskey bottle with the other hand. I took a step forward as he put his hand on top of the back of my head, pulling me down. He unloaded his gun into my mouth as I had cocked my own behind me. The tears that rained down my face tasted like the bitterness left in my mouth. Fear that night entered the gunman and I pulled the trigger.

That was the testimony he gave on the stand during his trial. The State wanted to try him as an adult because he unloaded thirteen rounds from the clip. If he was a child, he would have stopped shooting, the prosecutor claimed. Apparently having the guilty’s blood on his hands and shirt killed his innocence in the shadow of the blind eye of the law, but because he didn’t call the police until he couldn’t stand to live in the house with all of the flies, that was the nail in the defense’s coffin.

The law didn’t believe a fifteen-year-old boy’s claims of being molested, sexually abused and sodomized by his own father for four years. But than again why would anyone believe a teenager? He asked. But the police believed my actions, not the accusations, he said from the stand.

He was cuffed, shackled and clothed in an orange jump suit with the numbers 80942-269 spray-painted on his orange onesie via stencils. His court appointed lawyer told him not to cut his blonde hair and instead slick it back. He did so thinking that it would make him look human but young males with long blonde hair weren’t viewed as innocent in jurors condemning eyes.

Three days after the trial ended, a jury of his peers convicted him within four hours of murder by reason of insanity, which frightened him because a jury of his peers would then imply that they too were all convicted felons. A week before he was to be sentenced, investigators found the audio tapes his dad made of the two of them. He then received a sad sorry-ass apology from the judge, but she didn’t overturn the judgment, and decided his own lawyer saw it fit not to try for an appeal. He was forced by the law to deep throat the law’s egos and swallow their pride, for their own upstanding image in the media. His sad reality was politicized to use as senate campaign leverage, of which he was supposed to act thankful for saving him from the monster in the dark and putting him next to the monsters in the spotlight of the courtroom. He developed a fight verses flight reaction when it came to trust, either challenge it, or run away from it.

Why did you do it? The prosecutor had asked him on the stand. It was his choice to be put on the stand. It was his right and he didn’t hesitate to do so. He just wanted his story out for the world to grimace at. His blonde hair tucked behind his ears, in a blue shirt buttoned all the way up, but he went without a tie so he looked more like a white supremacist than an innocent man.

"Why? Wouldn’t you?" He heard himself ask back.

The judge glared at the white blonde haired kid, offended by his accusation, but he was told he wasn’t supposed to use body language to express himself in this judge’s court. Why did you kill your father? The prosecutor asked again, as if asking twice made it more serious.

He glared back at her with defiance of her motherhood, the ring on her finger sparkled like his dad’s belt clasp; simply, matter of factly, Because he made me fuck, suck and swallow him. There were gasps in the court, the judge gaveled for order as she reminded him to answer the prosecutor’s questions, nothing more, for his own sake. "Maybe you like to be raped but it’s not my cup of hot chocolate."

The judge turned to him, looked him in the eyes and threatened, Remember who you are speaking to. I demand respect.

That’s what my dad said as he took off his belt, and look what happened to him.

Is that a threat? The judge asked, as she leaned forward. The bailiff was ready to pounce, as if he was about to pull the pin from a grenade.

Against you? Hell no. I wouldn’t shoot you, he replied. "Stab maybe, but not shoot.

He was sent to a psychiatrist by the judge. His defense attorney decided to claim, Not guilty for reason of temporary insanity. When asked which form his lawyer simply and a matter-of-factly replied, Irresistible Impulse. Although able to distinguish right from wrong at the time of the act, his defendant suffered from a mental defect that made him incapable of controlling his actions.

A few hours later, sitting in a bookshelf lined office, the doctor was convinced he needed to determine the young killer was criminally insane.

Where do you suggest? The judge had asked the psychiatrist.

For this patient, I recommend he be put under the care of Dr. Cylus Pine.

Let me contact him to see if he has room in his facility for a patient like this. Give me a week at most and until then, put him in solitary under suicide watch. Before dismissing him and the court appointed psychiatrist she asked, Does he need to be on medication?

Without hesitation he replied, Yes your honor, but I feel Dr. Pine is more skilled in these situations.

Agreed.

And he was gaveled to the next stage of his sentence.

Within three days, he was shackled and hooded like a terrorist. He was moved into a vehicle, and after 479 bumps in the road he was guided to sit down. He turned left and right in a wheelchair, like he was handicapped. He was pulled to stand up, unhooded, and standing in front of a room, unshackled and pushed into a room. The door locked behind him. He was expecting his own suite with a stainless steel toilet welded to the floor. Instead, there were two beds against opposite walls and a ceramic toilet in the corner. He expected the room to maybe have bad yellow lighting, but it was a bright neon white. What he wasn’t expecting was to share a room with someone the first night he was there. The hospital wasn’t either but they didn’t apologize for the inconvenience. He got a mentally unstable manic depressive roommate that the nurse introduced as Frank. Frank was as loony, but at least he wasn’t referred to as a number like, 80942-269 anymore, as his actual name was Remus. Frank spit, peed himself, and growled as they brought him in, and straight-jacketed and restrained him to the bed. Frank immediately fell asleep.

When Remus woke up the next morning, not only was Frank gone, but so was the bed Frank had slept in. His own bed had even been moved to the center, like Frank had never existed. Those were good sleeping pills. He went to the door but it was locked. The window in the door faced another room, but that was all he could see. Looking around, he knew he was in padded-solitary.

He noticed there was a window high above his bed but he couldn’t reach it, even when he climbed on the bed and jumped. It was small and opaque but not barred, as if they knew he couldn’t reach it to escape. The bed felt like a cot from a summer camp and was made from rusty springs. The room smelled like a swimming pool. The air heavy like water and Remus felt like he was drowning.

Moments later there was a click sound from the door and he rushed to open it. Standing there, there were other doors all open but their lights were off. As he walked left down the wide hallway towards a large room, the pale blueness felt like the stark emptiness of a blue sky without clouds. Hearing something from behind him, he turned and there was a stainless steel door that must have been the exit. Walking to it, Remus noticed there was a door to the right, a room that was next to his own, and inside there were four other people and two empty seats. Hesitantly, he walked in, but those already seated didn’t say a word.

Hello? Remus asked.

But no one answered.

Where am I? But he already knew the answer.

Who are you people? But he probably could have guessed.

He had never seen these four people before. Apparently they were allowed to roam free as if it were reality, unencumbered by the boundaries of reality they were seen as unfit to act their parts in.

The room was the size of a garage for a compact car, but without a window to the outside reality. There were cameras high in each corner of the room and one vent in the center of the ceiling. It looked like it belonged in a meat processing plant. It was covered in dirt grim, hair and god only knew what else. They were sitting in a circle, the stainless steel chairs were clearly unbolted from another room and brought there. Facing Remus was a big window, not at all disguised as a two way interrogation window. Maybe they used the room prior for witnesses to identity the guilty, or maybe verify the innocent.

The room smelled like his grade school locker room, sweat, piss and underdeveloped brain matter. There was even a hint of that familiar stench of defeat after you lose the basketball game to your rival. The walls even had a yellow tinge like sweat stains.

The doctor walked in wearing a white lab coat and Remus found himself sitting up. Hello, I’m going to be the doctor for these sessions. My name is Doctor Pine. As he took his seat, Remus noticed all the doctor had was a pad of paper. Dr. Pine reached for a pen from his shirt pocket. His blue shirt and yellow tie felt like a slap in the face, like he had a reality to go to while Remus’s was served from a pill cup. Not to mention he played the clichéd doctor by wearing rimless glasses as if his sight had no obstacle. His hair was short and brown, not long and blonde like Remus was made to believe made him look innocent. He was in his 40s and fit. His arms looked stronger than his legs, so he stood and fought instead of running and hiding. Although his black shoes were like leather socks, tight, faded, slightly ripped and torn, there was no discernible sole.

How is everyone doing today? Pine asked as a hyperactive little mouse of a man-child nearly jumping out of his skin with caffeine-filled euphoria, was ushered in by two nurses. It was Frank in a straight-jacket.

Great, fine, superb! How are you Doctor P? He replied sitting down. My name is Lester Frank but you can call me Les, I’m 32, I like the color green, did you know my eyes are green? That’s why my favorite color is green.

Nice to meet you Les. Do you know why you are here? Pine asked.

Of course.

We are all friends here, nothing leaves this room. Do you want to tell us?

Yeah sure. He then sat calmly in his chair, moved his tongue around as if moving the gum from his mouth, cleared his throat and said, I killed my family.

Why’d you do that Lester?

Because.

Because why? Dr. Pine asked pointedly, knowing the script for the conversation.

But Lester looked confused. I need a reason?

Yes.

That’s what you’re supposed to do.

So, how did you do it?

With a shovel of course. Kind of brilliant really because then I could just use the shovel to shovel the parts I cut up into the fire. Those were beautiful fires. The way the flame danced on their toes and played the ivories of their fingers like Mozart, Van Gogh would have been impressed.

Thank you Lester for sharing your story. He wrote down something and came to the next person. An older woman in her late 40s, brown wiry hair with strings of gray lace. Skin soft, the weight of one and a half full-grown German Sheppard Dogs, the same that it took to get her off the policeman she was trying to claw the face off of.

Miss Maguire is your name correct? Pine asked her.

Yes.

Why are you with us today?

Because I attacked someone as well.

Why?

Because he arrested me.

For what?

Murder.

Of whom?

No one. I didn’t kill anyone.

So you didn’t go to the police saying you drowned your children?

Of course not, She replied, I did not go to the police.

Then why did they find your children where you said they were?

I don’t know.

Thank you for sharing Miss Maguire. What was wrong with these people? Remus wondered. And what about you? He asked the next person. She sat with her back to the group, facing the large window. The room-like hallway behind it, black, so creating a mirror like reflection of the glass; one without color, without life. She was a few years older than Remus, but not by much. She had pale skin that was colored by fading moles and freckles, her straight jet-black hair that she clearly cut herself. She had ripped the blue scrubs they were all convicted into wearing. There were rips in the knees, the inner thighs and near her rib cage just under her left breast, exposing a grey bra. It was the closest Remus had ever been to a real naked girl. She turned around and he could see the scars from her piercings in her lip and nose, and she wore red socks. The scars and the parts of her clothes that she chose to expose were attractive, as if it were purposeful, planned, had reason.

What? She asked in that tone he recognized: annoyance. I ain’t sharing shit with you. You have my file, I don’t know these freaks. Patient doctor confidentiality, bitch! And she turned back around towards the glass window. Remus looked at her in the reflection wondering what she saw, what she expected to see, and she caught his eye forcing him to look away, embarrassed.

I don’t recognize you sir, what’s your name?

But the older man wasn’t going to look up. He looked catatonic. Is your name Charlie? Pine asked him without answer. Charles? But he wouldn’t look up from the floor. Can you hear me Charles?

"The pecker is plastered to his seat Doc! He ain’t moving without some grease, you got some grease for me doc?!" Lester interjected as he was trying to jump out of his straitjacket.

Grease?

He stopped moving and looked at Pine as if he were trying to teach a child something important and explained, Drugs man, keeps the mind moving! I’m lagging.

Pine turned back to the start of his pad and scribbled as he replied, After our session we’ll get right on that.

You better doc or I’m going to shovel you too. And he started laughing hysterically as he rolled around on his seat, rocking back and forth.

And finally, Remus is it? Did I say that correctly? He asked, not looking up from his pad.

Remus, correct. But I prefer Romey.

Not Romulus? Dr. Pine asked. Remus looked up, surprising Pine he got the connection, the usual reply from teachers. He knew the mythology of the story of Romulus and Remus but Romulus was a killer and his brother Remus was the victim. He was neither. He was the byproduct of two people coming together thinking that sex was a good idea. He was a city. Strong, smart, had an ability for decision making like a functional Congress, had ethics like a court, had habits and a built-in