Max isn't the type of fellow you would have a drink with at your local pub after a night's hard work, or you would bring home to meet your family. To people around him, he seems an ordinary person, a single father to a teenage son, a detective servi...
The first memory I could ever remember was of my father beating my mother to death.
I recall my father smashing her head in with my metal baseball bat, the crunching echo every time the bat made its blow with her skull, blood spraying like red specks of paint sprinkled upon the walls.
A typical child would be screaming and crying as their father grabbed them by the scruff of the neck and made them watch as the light faded from her eyes. That's not me. My fingers slid in the blood pooling from her caved-in face; feeling the silky substance wash over my skin made me shiver in delight. I was not sad she was gone; I felt ecstatic, like jumping up and down on her death bed.
Well, let me tell you something, my pretty darlings before you get your panties twisted in a bunch. Throw away your pathetic rages and rants of how much of a monster I am.
This woman, Mummy dearest, is not a sweet innocent angel, who I should be grateful to bring me into this corrupted world. No, nope, nopety nope!
This woman, who exploited her power as a parent, committed an unforgivable sin—a woman who abused and beat her son, her seven-year-old boy.
Foolish Imbeciles!
Go on, go on and say. Oh, I'm so sorry! Blah blah blah.
Want to know what I think? You can shove your apologies so far up your arse and choke on it!
Anyway, that was 31 years ago. That was then, this now, that's not even the story. Ha!
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