stupid cop + more pre murkoff coyle sludge under the cut. Warning it's graphic
When you're six, your mom yells at your dad about moving to California. There's snot, and a crinkle in the space between her eyebrows. She says words you've heard many, many times in your life, but don't quite understand yet.
You know that your dad lost his job because of the collapse. You don't know what it means, but you know you now have to mooch off your classmates for food. They usually don't have any, either.
Your dad yells back. You watch in fascination as he hits her , over, and over, until and as she grabs a knife on him. She yells about being dead. You watch, and you think she might kill your dad.
You don't want her to kill your dad, and you don't want to move away from your town. She calls it a dust bowl, And you don't know a thing about economics, so you think she hates you, and Oklahoma, and your dad, and every other god damned thing about her life. So you think that your dad was probably right.
A girl in your new fourth grade class likes you and you know it. You know that she has a lot of friends, and you know a lot of them think you're dangerous because you throw chairs and yell.
You like her, you guess. Because she likes you and because she can run pretty fast. Sometimes you push her on the swings, but sometimes you pull at her hair and chase after her.
One day she walks up to you alone and talks at you about whatever.
One day you're handing her some kind of pencil.
One day you're chasing her in the grass, when you pull down at her skirt. She doesn't like you anymore after that. Even though her friends still tell her she should. You guess it's something about sex. You don't know about the folder in the principals office about you yet.
It's not until a few years later, that you learn how sex really works. You'll have to win it at. You learn that when a group of older kids corners you after school, you can't be too prideful to not just get it over with unless you want to get a broken rib. You break someone else's only when you're 16. You know some of their names, hazily. You know that you sell tobacco to them sometimes. You know you don't want them to hold you down.
You learn that you have to be unfitting of anything they can come up with later about it. So you throw more chairs, and you get even louder.
The Kennedy house is down the street from the John house, which is just down the street from yours.
Going home is now a mad, rushing, effort. Before school ends, you already have all your things packed up. You push past the doors of the rickety school building with a mad haste. You have to get home, need to get home before any of the older kids get out of class.
A few weeks in, the Kennedy family's mangy old dog is laying on the porch. Your hair is sticking to your forehead. It's tongue is hanging out. When you run by, schoolbag slamming against your back, it barks. You stop, momentarily, and look over at the old thing and it's disproportionate torso and mangy fur and only one standing ear. You imitate barking back. You clap your hands and stand up mean and fake growl, and yell, and laugh in a way someone would laugh at a cripple on the bus. It jumps at you, and chases you, and bites at your hand in a way any old mean dog does. You lead it to the creek and you kill it with a rock.
A year later, you have a lot of friends. They like you because you have a car, and can hop fences and can throw balls, light fireworks, and soak up drinks like a sponge. You do what they do, and they do what you do. You've known all about the folder in your principals office since you broke a window. You don't regard the law too well yet, as it doesn't regard you.
What comes with knowing people, is knowing the right girls.The war is over, and you're a teenage boy, so you're constantly thinking about sex. The girls at your school still think you're dangerous, but it doesn't even register. About sex: everyone thinks you have too much of it. They see you around town, chatting up any girl who does or doesn't like it. They don't know that something serious is wrong with you; or that you're the exact kind of fag you’d kick around yourself. They don't know that you can't get a hand around your dick without your whole body going stiff. Your clammy palm feels like a stranger's, so you cringe, swallow a stone in your throat, and taste your own saliva as call up another one of your girl friends to bury yourself in. Whore.
Sometimes you wish you were in a gang, like you know some of your peers are. It's a secretive thing that people are ashamed about, but sometimes when a girl you know won't drink with you, or won't go through town on a joyride with you, you wish you could slap her straight. It's easier for you to imagine this fantasy as a woman. Sometimes you wish you were in a gang, sophisticated and respected by just presence, but you can settle for fighting, and breaking in faces and ribs.
Until you aren't.
On the night of your 18th birthday, a giant thunderstorm hits. You don't tell any of your friends about your birthday. You guess it's because of how childish it makes you feel. You're leaning against the car your friends like you for, and watching the rain come down.
Your hair is sticking to your face again. You are looking up at the clouds and their foreboding thunder. You don't particularly feel compelled to do anything but shiver a little in the rain and watch half in awe, half in rage at the little meagerness given to you. Holding chairs and bottles or a gun in your hand doesn't make it any less clammy. You remember Greek stories about wrathful gods of thunder. You are still silent when the lightning strikes an old water tower. When you get home that night, you jerk off until you cry.
And next week, you're signing up for a police course. You know how to shoot a gun, you know how to run fast enough, and you make a joke about the Jews to the nice uniformed man, so you'll pass with flying colors.
gummygunk
2087
yousharknotpass
pixelskylines
stormborns
theartofmadeline