Hindsight
Day 1
"Is this fuckin thing on? I can't tell if it's on. . fuckin bullshit buttons. Ok, light's on. I'm just gonna hope it's on. I ask for a recorder, and they give me this damn thing the size of a cigarette lighter. Anyway, here goes... {Coughing} "My name is Tommy Horton. I am 56 years old today. It is Sunday August 4, 2011. Now...before I get too far into this story, I'll tell you the why of this recording. I wanna get all this off my chest, outta my mind, and out in the open. I ain't asking for forgiveness or anything like that. I don't need to find Jesus; that is neither here nor there.
Sometimes I wake up at night sweatin and scared outta my mind. Feelin like all the people I done bad stuff to is after me, wantin to hurt me or something. I ain't scared of being hurt. I can handle physical hurt. The things they wanna do to me in my dreams are worse than a couple punches, or a whack or two. They wanna hurt me so bad that I scream. They try to hurt my heart and twist my mind all around. I wake up here in my cell, and I don't know where I am right off. I'm just scared so bad. Once or twice I had tears on my cheeks.
I don't do nothin all day but sit here and wait to die. They say it's going to happen in 5 days, and that I exhausted all my appeals. One of the guards here on the Row told me that he was gonna be thrilled when I got the needle. He told me that I was gonna burn in hell for all I done. I think he was right.
Let me start at the beginning. I was born in the town of Platsburg, Texas. Dinky little shit of a town. You could piss from corner to corner. The Deputy Sheriff of Dufork County never much cared for me. Never much cared for that fat slob either. He got promoted while I was away. Sheriff Conner. That lazy-ass motherfucker got a big ol’ whoppin pat on the back for "catching" me, even though the truth of it is I wrapped myself up like a big present and did all but walk in and lock my fuckin self in a cell. Useless piece of shit. I hear he died of a heart attack about five years ago. Not a big surprise, considering how many bacon cheeseburgers had passed through his gullet over the years. There’s also the fact that he was old as the sun. No loss in my book.
Anyway, back to my story. I was an only child. A child that was wanted by my Mama and unwanted by my Daddy. He never let me forget that he didn't want nothin to do with me. He didn't want no kids. He used to say things like "Fuckin useless kids don't do nothin but take and take and take. By God Tommy, you are gonna give me somethin to earn your seat at my table." I'll get into what I had to do to earn that seat in a bit. I said I was gonna bare my fuckin soul here, and for me that means all of it, even the ugly.
My Mama was fearsome pretty. Her name was Lucinda. Lucy, like the comic strip. She had long red hair down to her waist. Her eyes were a almost scary hazel-green, they was so bright. She had a smile that really lit you up. She made the best sugar cookies you ever put in your mouth, or anywhere else for that matter. And she loved me. She read me stories, and told me I was a good boy, and helped me with my spelling words. She hugged and kissed me every night before bed. That is pretty much all I remember about her, except for when she left me. I was eight, almost nine. I walked down old Elm Street on my way home from school on a Tuesday, and she wasn't at home. She was always there with a snack waiting when I got home. Not that day. My dad was home from his job at the garage already, which was also unusual. He was sittin his skinny ass in his chair, drinking a beer. He had on his work clothes. Jeans and what they now call a wifebeater. But he wasn't dirty like when he usually came home. Yellin at Mama that his shit better be white when it came out the wash. For Mama being such a beauty, shesure married down. My daddy was skinny as all get up. He had to bunch his pants up at his waist with a belt like a paper bag. His hair was as dull brown as hers was brilliant red. He had dark eyes that showed nothing like a soul. They was just dark holes in an empty head. Dumb as the day is long, and mean as a snake.
I asked him where Mama was, and he said "She done left." I asked when she was comin back. He said "She ain't never comin back, boy. She said she was tired of takin care a you all the fuckin time. Wipin your snotty nose and listenin to you cry all the time over toys and other such bullshit." I started to cry just then, and my daddy got up from his chair and hit me square in the face. "Stop cryin', you whiny little fucker! She's gone for good, and if I ever hear you mention her again, I swear to God boy, I will beat you within an inch of your life. Maybe closer."
I sucked in my tears along with a good mouthful of blood. "Yes sir." I said, and went to my room to cry over my missing mama and my fat lip. I never mentioned her to him again.
In my time here in lockup, I've gotten a lot of letters from people. Some from women who want to meet me, or be my pen pal, five of them want to marry me, and two want me to give them my seed. Can you believe that shit? Who would want a kid like me? I get some from men that wanna write books about me, or get details on all my crimes. Reporters who want death row interviews. Doctors who wanna study me and find out why I am the monster I am. I read em all, but I don't never answer any of them. Except for one. About five years ago, I got a letter from a nun named Katherine. All she wanted to know was if I wanted her to contact anyone for me. Family, friends, victim's families, and so on.
I wrote back to her, and asked if she could find my Mama. Lucinda Abilene Hannity-Horton. I told her that I wanted to hear from her why she stopped loving me. Why she never called or wrote to me. Why she left me.
Well, after about three months, I had pretty much given up ever hearing from her again. Then one day she showed up here to visit me.
We sat in the visitor’s area, me behind glass, cuffed, and little Sister Katherine sittin in a chair holding a phone. I don't know if I expected her to be dressed as a full on penguin, or what, but I was surprised at how normal she looked. Even pretty. She was dressed in a blue button up shirt. She wore a small gold crucifix around her neck. She had pretty blue eyes that, I know this sounds crazy, but her eyes looked so sweet and forgiving. She had pretty shoulder length natural blond hair that was done, but not overdone. She was nothing but a whisper in size. Itty bitty thing, no more than 4' 10" if an inch.
She talked into the phone and said "Nice to meet you Mr. Horton." Shit! Like I was a normal guy or something. She talked a little bit about God, and I did her the courtesy of listening.
I asked her if she had found out anything bout my mama. She said she had found out something. She started to tell me what it was, and I shit you not, she started crying. I sat their feelin like I might cry too. Even though I hadn't willingly shed a tear since I was eight years old.
She told me somethin that I think, in my heart I already knew. Sometime before my seventeenth birthday, long after I had left home and Platsburg behind, a body was found.
