a short story
by Astor W. Heinemann
The boy had been waiting by the barn for a few hours, expecting father to arrive at any moment with the goods. He admired and loved him very much, looked up to him as if he were a hero for he had raised the boy on his own since mother up and disappeared over ten years ago. It didn't matter that he drank sometimes, it was the norm for his kind around there. At sixteen he was almost a man and he wanted to be just like father, a man's man, strong and independent.
Their house was old, set in a relatively rural area surrounded by huge fields and scattered trees, nearest house about a mile away. Father tried to keep it tidy, but it's age had started to take it's toll and money was short. White paint was peeling off the wooden siding, roof had no leaks but looked rather old and ugly and the porch had nothing but a single old creaking rocking chair and some random junk spread around. The barn had not been used for animals in a long time and all there was in it were some rusty tools, a couple of workbenches, firewood, old hay and some chains hanging from the top beams. Never painted, the rotting wood panels and rusted metal that covered it looked as grim as an abandoned building. It had an imprudent smell to it that hit you in the face like a foul ghost escaping the premises when the door was opened. He never could figure out what the smell was. Father would spend time in there sometimes fixing up some of the furniture or working on the old truck.
He was excited, father had told him that tonight they would spend some time together and he would teach him some new things about being a man. As boring as his life had been this was a most welcome treat. He regularly had nothing to do but read pulp magazines and carve out little figures out of wood with his pocket knife. He never did like school and had no friends. A real loner.
Sitting on an old tree trunk put there for the sole purpose of cutting firewood, a small oil lamp by his side flickering against his pale white skin, half crescent moon dimly lit up the horizon, he shaved a small piece of wood with his knife freshly sharpened as he did every week. A noise at a distance, lights winding down the road towards the old house. It was father, finally here.
The boy opened the barn doors for the beat up old truck to go in, rattling and breathing out black smoke that filled all the air around it as a visible dark halo of the occult. There was father, dirty overalls and muddy boots, greasy hair, unshaven, but in the boy's eyes he stepped out of the truck as a magnanimous Greek god with all the duality of evil generosity they're known for. Not a word was said.
Taking an old dirty sack from the back of the truck he looked over at the boy, with a malevolent grin, and pulled his head back suggesting he should come closer. Reluctantly, the boy did so just as father asked him to remove all that was on one of the workbenches, he did so quickly. Father carefully placed the elongated sack on it, put his left hand over it, his right hand clenched in a fist on his waist and reassured the boy that this was going to be a memorable father-son experience. The boy lit up, his eyes wide with anticipation almost brightened the barn. The old man asked him to unsheathe the knife that was hanging from one of the walls and bring it over, to cut the ropes, he said.
Walking towards the tool wall, he peeked back at father and saw him smiling at the sack, rubbing his hands together, as if this was the grandest gift he could give the boy. The knife was about ten inches long with a dark, crusty leather sheath and a wooden handle that was bound by a leather string to make it less slippery and had become seamless from extended use. Going back towards father he still couldn't figure out what had been brought back, why did he take so long getting home? Why was this so special? Before he knew it he was back at the workbench and handed father the knife, he stepped back a bit. The old man put the blade sideways against his forehead and motioned forward, as if thanking or tipping off his hat. Four ropes fit tightly around the sack, one on each end and two equidistant from the center, knotted so well it was difficult to undo the knot so he would just cut them off. First the one opposite to the sack's opening, then going up from there until the last one, cutting slowly as if to make the boy more excited, back and forth the blade patiently ripping through the tensioned fibers.
At last, the sack was undone and the boy felt like jumping over to look inside, but composed himself as if to appear more mature in father's presence. But the old man smelled the excitement in the air, for he felt it too, and gestured the boy to go ahead, but handed him the knife and asked him to cut away the sack. Without reluctance he grabbed the sharp blade and pulled back on the sack to make it easier to cut. He, as father, did so slowly as if to savor this moment, to remember the moment father decided he was a man and did something special for him. As the smelly sack steadily ripped in half he first saw what looked like hair, brown curly hair, progressing through he noticed it was long, a face, a beautiful face, young and angelic looking, it was a girl. His heart started pumping faster, cold sweat built up on his forehead, now going faster with the knife beautiful exposed breasts, fair skin hardly a mark could be seen, a beautiful young girl laid on the workbench in front of him, unconscious, he couldn't look around or at father, rolling his eyeballs all over the girl's body, wondering why had father had brought her in. A voice interrupted the hypnotic event.
"You, my boy, tonight you learn how to treat a woman right". The boy was already having trouble breathing, father's remark only made it worse. What was he supposed to do with this girl? She was alive, he could see her chest expand and contract against the dim light from the oil lamp. Confusion, distress, as father put his big rugged hands on his shoulders, "don't worry boy, I'll take you through it, everything you need to know", that's when he noticed the potent stench of alcohol. Father had been drinking, he looked into his eyes and saw that they were distant and loopy, and he understood why he had that unsettling expression on his face. "Who is she?", the boy asked with a hint of trembling on his voice. "She's a nobody, some tramp I picked for you to practice on, so don't you worry about anything, I will take care of it after your lesson". The boy started to get frightened, palms started to sweat and cold shivers ran all over his body as if his heart was pumping ice cold blood into his system. "Won't people know? Won't they be looking for her?". "What'd I tell you boy! Stop being chicken shit and let's take care of this. If it'll put you at ease I got her from out of town, nobody knows she's here", and he knew all that was to happen to this girl, ultimately.
Father told him to take off his pants and get on the workbench on top of the girl. The boy was nervous, but father had already started to become annoyed with his showing lack of interest in what was at hand, so he obeyed. "Now open up her mouth and kiss her, stick your tongue in there real good and wiggle it around some", not even looking up at him and shaking, he took her by the chin and closed his eyes. He could feel her warm breath against his childish skin, he got closer and started to cry. The old man, noticing this, smacked him over the head making his long blond hair flutter around. He started crying harder and his tears dripping on the girl's face made the moment much more difficult to bear. "What in the hell are you doing, boy? Are you scared? Aren't you ready to be a man?" the old man screamed. He couldn't respond and just laid there on top of the girl with his head hanging in shame, never knowing if it was because of what he was being asked to do or because he was disappointing father.
The old man slowly grabbed one of the boy's hands and pressed it against the girl's breasts, his fingers bumping against the exposed reddish nipples. The boy cried harder, involuntary erection set in, he had never been this close to a girl before, thinking why did his first experience had to be like this. His father did this for a few minutes, then slowly glided his hand around the side of her torso towards her legs, they were smooth and silky, the boy was sobbing the whole time. Then father moved it toward her crotch, letting go of the boy's hand as he did so. He kept going on his own, out of control at this point. As soon as he reached her warm and moist genitalia he felt this overbearing sensation that took him by surprise, suddenly he couldn't breathe, all his muscles contracted, all the energy from his body directed towards his crotch, an explosive feeling that left him motionless, gasping for air, ashamed and satisfied all at the same time, a wet feeling in his underpants.
Father stared at him, a disappointed look on his face. "I can't believe you done this, son, you didn't even get through the starting line and now you're done" he muttered. The boy still couldn't look up at his face when suddenly he felt a flicker of light on his eyes and before he could look over he saw the blade, fire from the oil lamp reflecting off of it as if it were a mirror. He looked up at the old man, confused, him looking straight into his eyes, "at least you'll learn how to finish it off". Horrified, the boy tried to pull up his pants and jump off the workbench, but father held him in place. "No father, please, I can't!" he cried in despair. "What do you suggest we do, boy? She seen me, she seen my truck, can't just let her go, you have to finish her just like I always do". At that point the boy was crying inconsolably in disbelief, his father, his hero, was really this monster that stood before him. "Take the knife and do it or it'll be you getting cut". The boy took the knife from father's ashy hands, still in denial that this was happening to him.
"You hold it like so" said father showing the boy the most efficient way for a quick kill, held in a tight fist, blade away from your thumb, sharp edge away from your fist, put your weight into it, use your finger's strength to keep the blade straight, to the neck, in one motion sideways. The boy hesitated and the old man hit him again yelling "do it!". Screaming with despair the boy closed his eyes, put the blade to the girl's left side of neck and put his weight to it slicing through the other end. At first, a faint thin red line, in a few seconds a gargling noise, blood splattered all over him and the workbench, he understood that the old dark spots on the bench were not from motor oil. He cried harder, yelling for God's forgiveness, and then in a few minutes the noise stopped, all that could be heard was the boy sobbing.
He felt some light getting closer and saw that it was father handing him the oil lamp. "Here, get off the table and hold this". The boy pulled up his pants, still crying. "Bundle up the sack, tie it up tight and bring it over here" he said while picking a shovel from the tool rack. As the boy dragged the sack towards where father stood he couldn't believe what he had done, a sense of dread towards himself overwhelmed him, he became angered at himself and father, this was not how it's supposed to be, this is not the way men become men. Father handed him the shovel and asked him to dig a hole.
"When your grand papa brought me my first I was a real man, I done her right, not like you, you're a disgrace to our family name". Sweat pouring down his face, he took off his shirt, wiped it off and kept on digging, the anger boiling inside him, the adrenalin of what he had just done made it much easier to find the strength to dig such a large hole in the ground. "Well, I hope you'll do better next time. I'll bring you along and you can pick the one you like, maybe it'll work better for you that way" the old man said as if thinking out loud. Then at that moment the boy hit something hard in the ground, he thought it was a rock and tried to pry it off with the shovel, but as he did so, an unsightly image appeared, it was a skull. Father kept going on and on about their future exploits and the boy kept unearthing the corpse underneath, it was wearing one of mother's dresses, he remembered it as clearly as if he had seen her yesterday, memories of him playing by the tire swing, mother yelling for him to come in for supper, wearing that same blue flowery dress, and he knew.
As anger and frustration filled him up and the realization of father's true nature, the whole picture had begun to unfold before his eyes. He looked up from the hole he was digging, by now about three feet deep, at the old man, his dead eyes staring at him with an emptiness one can only imagine, father, a black hearted soulless killer just for the joy of it, for thrills. "That's deep enough" he said, and turned around to roll over the dead girl's corpse. Rage overwhelmed the boy, he pulled the shovel up and behind him, hesitated for a few seconds then swung with all his strength. The shovel's edge plunged into father's head, almost splitting his whole skull in two, no sound, no movement, just a dry thump as he hit the ground, his blood staining the old sack where the girl was.
No amount of consolation would have worked on the boy at that moment. Memories of a loving mother, father a murderer, no one left in the world to count on, just an empty soul and a lake of tears. He fell down to his knees and covered his face with his hands in shame. Shame for what father had done, who knows how many times, shame for what he had done to the girl and father. An hour later he picked up a gas container from the old truck's bed, sprinkled the whole barn, the benches, the walls, the hay and took the oil lamp with him, not wanting to look back for fear of catching a glimpse of father's face, his eyes still looking at him with a disapproving expression on them, he lit up the place and walked a couple of dozen feet away. He stood there for a while, went inside and packed a bag with what little belongings he had then came back out, watching the fiery inferno disintegrate the old barn, hoping that he would be delivered and cleansed from father's sins and his own through a symbolic baptism of fire.
Ende.