My name is Jonathan, not
Johnny, John or Boy. My birth certificate claims I was born February
21, 1980, 8:10 CST in Minneapolis to Mary and Frederic Swinscome. Of course,
that's a lie! But I'll go into that later. Mary and Frederic Swinscome tied
the knot three months before my supposed birth. He was trained as a wielder
and a heavy-duty machine operator, but spent most of his time pissing his
supervisors off and his paycheques away. Mary Swinscome was a part time
waitress and a full time victim. Apparently I did well in grade school,
my report cards were full of E s and A s, but more than one of them said
I was unusually quiet and withdrawn. I think I liked school, not the kids,
a lot of them were real bastards, though they left me alone, but the books
weren't bad and some of the teachers smelt real good. But that was before
IT happened, a long, long time ago and I think the Kid should come out and
tell his own story.
"I'm waiting for an explanation,
Young man! Exactly who do you think you are!"
The voice was grating,
its high pitched tone designed to produce the maximum of discomfort in a wayward
youth. I held fast, stock still, lips clenched, arms crossed, but I held
my head high determined not to show fear or loose face. Her pasty, pock marked
face turned a brighter colour of red and her voice raised incrementally. She
leaned over me, her bulky bosom just inches from my face. I controlled my
urge to bite and fixed my gaze on the folds of fat dangling from her collapsed
jaw.
"Sow" I muttered, half to
myself.
"What did you say! "She
shrieked, stepping back, her pudgy hand curled into a fist. "Did you call
me something!"
I stared full into her face
and let my lips curl into a smile. Her fist struck once, twice, I rocked back
on my feet and cursed the childish tears flooding my face. She hit me again,
my lip split, the hot drool of blood mingled with the shameful tears slowly
dripping on the black and white linoleum floor. I wiped my face with my shirtsleeve,
the viscous mixture of blood tears and snot permanently marring the smooth
white cotton.
Momentarily appeased, she
stepped back, "Go to your room, young man. Your father will have something
to say when he gets home!"
Turning on my heel, I strode
through the living room, up the stairs and into my assigned room, closing
the door behind me. It looked like any other bedroom. Dingy white walls, peeling
woodwork, the musty odour of mould emanating from the threadbare carpet,
a few tattered sport posters on the wall and my pride and joy, the front
page of a laminated newspaper with the headline "Man Walks on The Moon" over
the bed. I kicked off my shoes and leafed through the stack of forbidden X-Men
comic books. Her husband would be home soon and if I were lucky I wouldn't
have to eat dinner.
I must have been seven
or eight when I figured it out. It seemed obvious when I thought about it
and I'm still not sure why it took me so long. Maybe it was because I called
her mother and him dad and never remembered a time when they weren't present.
Pretty stupid of me, but I was just a kid at the time. My earliest memories
were of shrieking and the thud of fist on flesh, when he couldn't take her
whining any more. I learned to be very quiet and to avoid looking directly
into his face or getting close enough to smell the foul stink of cheap wine
and beer on their breath. It was easy to dodge the broken bottles and occasional
slap back then.
But one day walking home
from school, I stopped just outside of the front door and took a long look
inside. My father was slumped in the big, overstuffed chair across from the
TV set, his fat belly hanging out, a bottle of beer in one hand and a bag
of chips in the other. His fingers were thick and greasy, his face unshaved
and hair covered his shoulders. I noticed his fat lower lip, the crooked
hook of his nose and the sleepy eyes squinting under the bushy brows. Mom
came in, wearing pink fuzzy slippers and a shapeless print dress, her reddish
blond hair in rollers, her fat fingers stained yellow and a lipstick smeared
cigarette hanging from her lips. Looking at the two of them, I realised they
were aliens, strangers and not my parents.
I was lean, skinny even.
They were thick and squat. My eyes were a golden brown; theirs were watery
blue and grey. My hair was wavy and dark, his was faded blond streaked with
grey and hers changed colour almost every week. A wave of relief swept through
me as I realised that I didn't really belong to them, to be followed by
a wave of fear. Where were my real parents? What did these strangers want
with me? What would they do, if they realised I knew their secret?
Thump! Thump! Thump! leaden
footsteps on the stairs, the ominous sound of heavy breathing outside the
door. I freeze, then swiftly conceal the comics under the mattress, the door
swings open, and He enters. A mixture of rancid sweat, alcohol and rage fills
the room. He doesn't say anything, just strokes the nail studded, leather
belt between his fingers. I'm in for it now!
"Drop your pants and bend
over!"
I comply, but someday, someday.
I picture taking out the 12 gage shotgun of their closet, their fear filled
faces, the smooth feel of the trigger under my thumb..Someday.
The Kid's upset now, can't
blame him, they were pretty shitty. Can't say I'd shed any tears over either
Mary or Frederic, but it ain't easy to be a changeling, specially when people
keep acting like you're their property. Anyway, I bet you're wondering what
happened, I think the kid's ready to come out again.
He stopped beating me shortly
after I turned 14. It took her a little longer. It wasn't because they decided
to love me, or stopped being angry. I don't think they ever stopped being
angry, but maybe they got tired. Its not much fun kicking a kid around, when
he doesn't cry or act scared. I don't know and the truth is, "I don't really
care."
Frederic lost one job after
another, we went from eating mushy potatoes and watery hamburger paddies to
Kraft dinner and the left overs Mary scrounged at the café. I lied
about my age and got a job at Macdonald's, Somehow they managed to keep the
electricity on and there was always enough money for tobacco and booze, though
the TV was gone. Then on June 28th, 1995, IT happened. I had just bought
the latest copy of the X men, plus a really weird collector's issue of The
Preacher. I stashed the books inside my T-shirt, didn't want to tempt fate
or the local skinheads, and headed home. About half a block away I saw the
thin trail of smoke. It was coming from my back yard.
Curious, I cut cross an
empty field over to the back of the house and looked through the falling down
fence. Mary was feeding something into the smoke belching, dilapidated, brick
lined, bar-b-que. I looked closer; she was tearing up some papers. No!
They Were My Comics! I started to run the fence went down its rotted,
moss stained boards shattered under my feet. The Bitch looked up and grinned
at me. "Devil's books, you little bastard, No work of Satan is going to
stay in My House!" I grabbed at the few remaining comics, She held them
above her head, cackling madly and dancing around and around. I reached higher,
pushed; she fell right into the fire pit. The thin material of her waitress
uniform went ablaze and she stumbled out of the pit, screaming as the flames
raced over her body and her lacquered hair exploded. I never saw anything
so beautiful in my life.
She didn't make much noise
after that, just a lot of whimpering, twisting and writhing on the ground.
I felt sort of sad; it was like watching a poisoned cat or a broken winged
bird. So I went into the house and took out the shotgun. I really don't
like watching people suffer. Oh yeah, I took care of him too, He slept through
the whole thing. I'm pretty sure he didn't feel any pain. It was almost
three days before the cops came.
So now we sit in this sparkling
clean, pale green room. It has curtains on the windows and smooth sheets
on the bed. It's real quiet here and the food isn't bad. Sometimes an orderly
takes me outside and we toss a ball at the basketball hoop. Most of the time
I watch the people come and go. Sometimes they talk to me, ask questions
about the kid, about Frederic and Mary Swinscome. I smile and look away.
It's not their fault, they just don't know about changelings. I really don't
mind the pills or the locks, I just wish they would let me have the comics
back. The Kid misses them.
Stories For A Winter Night