IF THOUGHTS COULD KILL
I wished someone dead once, but I will never do it again because it worked. And now, with more years under my belt than I have left, and an assortment of health concerns, and with my bearings juxtaposed between revenge and forgiveness, rage and solace, I am accepting responsibility for the aforesaid murder in an effort to free myself from the overwhelming weight of guilt. And, to be honest with you, I’m unsure if I’m doing this out of remorse or altruism, but I do know I cannot take this to the grave with me.
The summer I turned 13 was not a happy time. Trying to fit in as the hormones of adolescence consumed me mentally and physically, a face marred with acne, and a father who demanded I be the athlete I could not be, brought me to the verge of emotional collapse.
Our neighborhood ball field was under the command of a bully named Larry, also known as Fat Larry when he was out of earshot. Larry would often pit us against each other for his amusement. Larry was a tough kid and he knew how to fight, we were all subservient to him in that regard, so he made sport out of instigating squabbles among us that could only be resolved with fisticuffs, and my day had arrived. There was a new kid in the neighborhood, his family had taken over a scrapyard, and he would show up at the ball field eager to make friends.
He was lanky and tanned with grease stains from his fingertips to his elbows. It was obvious that working for his father had turned him into a man well before the progression of time could. He had short blonde hair and spoke with a southern drawl. He readily accepted the challenge of besting me in a fight, knowing full well I was no match for him. Too bad he wanted to gain acceptance by punishing me, he was a likable kid, we should have been friends and not enemies.
Good fortune saved me that day. The new kid’s father showed up in a decrepit tow truck and hauled him away, but Larry announced tomorrow would be the day and I better show up if I knew what was good for me. I walked home with a bat and ball glove over my shoulder, terrified of what was to come, if I would be reduced to tears and ridiculed, and derided, and debased, all for the pleasure of Fat Larry and his newfound junkyard ally. It was then that I wished the new kid dead, every molecule in my body screamed out for his death, and after his death I would come for that fat bastard who was making my life miserable, that fat bastard who was orchestrating the carnage to come.
But first, Tommy, the new kid, had to go. I imagined using a shotgun, beating him to death with the bat that rested on my shoulder, pushing him off the River Street bridge, but it had to be brutal, he needed to suffer, and I needed to enjoy every grimace, each shriek of pain, I needed to drink in the abject fear upon his face as I callously smiled, reveling in his despair. But those thoughts did not comfort me through a sleepless night of dread and anticipation.
The next afternoon, as I walked to the ball field, kids on bicycles were chasing the sirens of fire engines racing towards a plume of black smoke emanating from a couple blocks away. I was to find out a few hours later that Tommy and his father had been killed while cutting the gas tank from a junk car with a torch.
In that moment I felt great relief, a great vindication that fate was on my side, but then the guilt set in. Had I caused this, had I willed Tommy’s death, what goes around comes around I thought, what was to be in store for me now.
Larry, on the other hand, had not a shred of sympathy for the kid or his family, not one ounce of compassion for his recently departed pawn. He just shook his head and remarked how stupid it was that the kid’s old man didn’t fill the tank with water before using the cutting torch.
“Pretty damn stupid,” he would remark anytime the incident was mentioned. And then he would shake his head with a grin upon his face and repeat his admonition, “Just plain stupid, that’s what you get for being that stupid.”
I was consumed by what misfortunes would come my way, after all, I was the murderer, but even though I had the power of death within me, I could not bring myself to assassinate Larry, for it could impose a tragedy upon myself and my family.
What goes around does come around, although we seldom get a chance to witness or enjoy it. On the first day of the new school year, Larry received the mother of all black eyes from a kid he was picking on in gym class. A swift, powerful blow connected with Larry’s face, leaving his eye bruised, swollen, and nauseatingly disfigured. Albeit a sucker punch, but a well deserved sucker punch, and it was his good eye, not the lazy eye, and Larry hit the gym floor, and a chorus of angels sang the praises of the kid who finally stood up to the bully, and as the weeks passed, his damaged eye took on a variety of colors as it healed, and he feared the righteous retribution of those he had hurt and degraded, those who now wished to blind him with another thunderous blow to the face. And I rejoiced in every second of his misfortune.
Today I will summon the courage to meet face to face with the police detective I have been phoning for the past year. I will demand he take my statement, I will demand that he no longer ignore me, I will present a psychiatrist’s report stating I am not mentally ill, I will confess to the murder of Tommy and his father, and I will suffer the consequences. I will not accept the detective’s challenge to kill a dictator or a despot to prove my prowess, for two wrongs will never make a right, I will stare down the detective and his partner as they elbow each other in the interview room. Overweight men with unkempt mustaches, clip on ties and ten-dollar haircuts, and short sleeved dress shirts that could pop a button at any second. I will ignore their sarcastic remarks about my state of mind, my concept of reality, the time they are wasting on me, but their chuckles and remarks will cease as I slump in my chair, my breathing stopped, my complexion mottled, for I will have wished myself away to affirm my confession.