TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
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By: Barrett Christopher Cart
I am writing to make others understand. I could give a fuck less if people agree or disagree, public opinion will always just be talk. Just being understood is my only goal, and if your God is omnipotent than he/she already has understood. The effects of my actions must be uprooted at the cause. I must start at the beginning or else there can be no end. There must be an end to me or there cannot be another beginning.
From the beginning my parents made certain that I would not go a day without being reminded that I was a mistake. In my father’s creamy, dead load; I was the little sperm that could. To say I was a mistake means that their god makes mistakes. I even had a Norman Rockwell looking painting of a boy wearing a pouting frown that read: “I no I’m special cause God don’t make no junk.” Could it be the Almighty just said, “God damn it!” Smacking his forehead and tilting his halo, “I just made Brian Freemont! My, my it’s a shame how many innocent kids will die at his wretched hand.”
You see, my first memory was of a Christmas tree. I remember it looking pretty out of place. Like the tree’s roots busted straight through the cracks in our stick-on tile floor and grew till it reached our ceiling that seemed as though it would collapse at any moment; but the tree was beautiful. With makeshift ornaments, and blue, red, and green lights I feel as if this first memory was an epiphany. I always liked the word epiphany. It makes me think of glaciers where no man would dare venture, breaking away from each other in frozen whispers. Anyway, I understood that no matter how wonderful and elegant nature may be humans would always need to modify it to their liking.
The next few Christmas’ father brought in more trees. But these trees weren’t even evergreens. Just any shrub or tree he could get out of our small lot or somebody else’s would do. Once he even drug in a mimosa that filled the entire living. There would always be only one present wrapped in newspaper beneath all the insects clinging to the tree. Mother always gave father a gift, while my father’s gift to mother was these horrible trees. Their gift to me was a message scribbled in my father’s handwriting reading: “Dear Brian,
Once again you have been naughty.
That was it; I knew then that bad was just a boot that I fitted. The next Christmas, I must have been about seven, mom bought father a television set. But, I didn’t get the note this time. Father had prepared some theatrics for me. While I was soundly asleep I heard a, “boom!” That seemed to shake the earth and threw me out of bed. I ran out into the freezing midnight air barefooted on frosty grass and my father was out in the yard. He gave me a look of hatred and I knew he was drunk, “do you know what you’ve done?”
“No,” I replied weakly.
“Well mister, you were so bad this past year that when Santa seen all the naughty things you’ve done he couldn’t handle it and committed suicide.”
“He blew his fucking brains out with a shotgun.”
“No,” I couldn’t believe that I ruined Christmas for that many other children. I couldn’t think of a single naughty thing that I had done and tears froze to my cheeks as I ran back into the house to sleep forever.
I woke up the next morning after my father went to work. He had to go back offshore to fix something or another. To this day I’m not sure exactly what kind of work he did nor care. I could just breath easier knowing that he was away. I heard the television on and I was sure that my mother got the gift for herself rather than father. She never left the house but she was supposed to be a homemaker. She wouldn’t even make me meals. Her life consisted of television, Valiums, and romance novels. I decided to spend time with her and the only way to do that would be to plop yourself in front of the tube and share the sights that she sees.
I hated it. She watched show like, “The Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” and “Full House.” It was like a torture chamber. The T.V. makes you feel so small as it rubs luxuries that you will never possess into your face. I couldn’t bear watching, “Saved by the Bell” since I knew nothing of school and friends. I was supposed to be getting home schooled by my mother and all she taught me were commercials that preached that I was a nobody if I couldn’t buy their products. I’d still check my pockets from time to time but all I ever had were acorns. I feel better when I have acorns in my pockets and I don’t even know why. It wasn’t until high school that the laws made me attend public schools. Though my lack of former schooling seemed like I wouldn’t be able to just join in like I was schooled all along, my high I.Q. and the mountains of books I read on my own made up for it. But, now I’m getting ahead of myself.
My anger during my pubescent stages was turned toward creatures lesser than myself. I’d catch lizards and stab needles into them like deep acupuncture just to watch how long they lived. I also found out that lizard’s could hold their breath for a great length of time under water. The there were the frogs. I would slice their belly’s open with the precision of a surgeon and fill it’s insides with mustard and other seasonings before sewing them back up. They would still hop, sort of. Within twenty-four hours the frog would finally croak. I still haven’t forgiven myself for these twisted deeds.
The worst I can remember was after my father had taken a belt to my backside for changing the television station. I don’t know if it was to take revenge on my father or just something to make me not feel so inferior, but the cat took the loss. It was my father’s cat, a black and white cat named Jazzy. How my father loved that cat. I took a bottle of Elmer’s Glue and Jazzy outside. Slamming the cat onto its spine I then began to strangle it. When the cat’s mouth opened for air all there was to inhale was a stream of thick, pasty white glue. The gunk must have filled up half of Jazzy’s stomach before its air pipe was pasted shut. When my father found his cat I thought he would tear another hole into my ass, but he didn’t. He called my mother and I out to the back yard and made us watch as he buried his bloated cat. I was amazed to see my father’s eyes run like facets, I believe it was the first time that I had seen him cry in my entire ten years of life. I received punishment enough through nightmares. I would dream that Jazzy dug herself out of the shallow grave and limp, top-heavy to our screen door. I could see her hanging onto the screen door screaming, “why? Why Brian?” In some of the dreams I’d knock it off the screen and stomp on it. I had to silence this undead cat. I would stomp on its head and ribs over and over but it wouldn’t stop asking those same taunting questions.
Finally, I knew I had to go see other life. Somewhere inside I knew that people had to live normal lives. I began going on walks, I guess you can say I became a peeping Tom. At first, I would just look into the screen or glass doors that had no other wooden or storm doors behind them. Especially at night, you can see families sitting together watching that same horrible television. But, they were more like what was on the television; they were smiling and talking to each other. It’s quite an amazing spectacle to watch people when they don’t know that they are being spied upon. I even began catching these moments on camera. It was like stealing a second out of these people’s lives and making it mine. I built quite a photo album of people and families I haven’t met yet. Then I realized that the collection of pictures is dead, all the moments are past. They are as dead as Jazzy so that is where I went and buried them, with the cat. I dug fast and covered the grave back over even faster as the fear from my dreams bubbled up into my stomach and cooled the marrow in my bones.
I had to reach a little further. I started looking for houses that had a collection of newspapers in their driveway or mailboxes that couldn’t close due to a week of mail. It was these houses that I’d break in. I’d try all the food in the pantries and use their bathtub with all their wonderful soaps. When I was luck I’d find old home videos and relax on their couch watching them. When I became unlucky, an angry man returned home and spilt half my blood into his carpet before heaving me onto the hot asphalt road.
That same evening I had gotten another beating from my mother. It seems that since I was always such a bad boy and because I killed the cat my father hung himself in the closet. Mother dragged me over to his swaying corpse. His skin wasn’t the right color, none of his skin. My father was as nude as he was when he came into this world. His face was void of youth and some sot of fluid hung from his fully erect dick.
My mother then forced me to be an alter boy at the Catholic Church even though she was raised Jehovah Witness. I didn’t believe in any god at all. If there is some sort of master plan then it’s a really bad plan that needs to be re-mastered. It’s not working so I won’t fucking worship no man with bad plans. But, I cloaked myself in white and rang the bells and brought wine to the priest like a slave boy anyhow. Behind the stage things were getting weird. After mass once I was eating the communion host, the Body of Christ, like potato chips and drinking the cheap wine, the blood of Christ when the priest caught me. I was already busted so I took another swig and waited to get fired from a job that I didn’t get paid for nor wanted to keep.
“You’re in school, huh?” The priest nodded with a shit-eating grin, “you like corndogs?”
“No,” I responded to this wacko in holy garments. His head was shiny and bald on the top with long strands of hair on the side making a futile attempt to cover over, “I’m not in school.”
“Yeah,” the priest’s head keeps nodding like it’s connected to a spring on somebody’s dashboard. “I miss those corndogs in the school cafeteria.”
“Well, I never had them.”
“Have you ever seen them?” He lifted his gown and exposed his tiny prick that when fully engaged may lengthen to a full three inches, “they look something like this.”
“I’ve seen them before,” I said. “But I remember them being a lot larger than that.”
“Why you little…” Before the priest could finish I slammed my foot between his legs as had as possible.
I just ran. I ran and ran, leaving the smells of frankincense, myrrh, and stale holy water in my past forever. When I reached home, my mother of course, gave me another beating and I didn’t even rat the priest out. I handled it well enough and what’s the use of ling, telling the truth, or just plain saying anything when no one believes a word you say.
What was really bothering her was that the state sent papers saying that I must attend school for my high school years coming up. I would no longer be under her filthy thumb. When the time came to go to high school I proudly went. I was ecstatic to meet so many new people, but none too many were so pleased to meet me. I kept straight A’s from the back corner of each classroom. I never ate in the cafeteria; I brought my own peanut butter sandwiches being certain that the school’s food was drugged to keep all my peers ignorant. As well as, never in my life do I want to be served a corndog from the cafeteria.
Nobody is a complete loaner just as no man’s an island. If men have to be land of some sort than woman must be water. My ocean was and is, Samantha Martin. She would sit by me in class and watch me doodle insanities into my notebook. Then on the bus she would save a spot for me. I thought she just wanted an ear to speak at but she really wanted me to listen. She wanted me to know her more than I already do. More than the scent of her on the letters she passed me. Even more than the rhythm of her breath and the way she looks around shyly before she eats.
By my senior year I did know her. I didn’t know that I could love another human like that and the sparkle in her eyes responded the same. I think it was her eyes that first caught me. Those deep, garden green eyes that fertility could be read in. Samantha was only a half-inch shorter than I and her onyx hair played just above her bubble butt. As drastic as Kafka’s Metamorphosis, I was suddenly a loving creature. The entire world looked different to me now that I was sharing it with her.
As in all tragedies there was a twist of fate. Before graduation, I returned home and my mother was nowhere to be found. I was abandoned and without even a note. I was reunited with the childhood fear of utter abandonment. Mother was never much of any help anyway. It’s just being alone. Somehow I always figured I’d be alone, forever.
I never returned to school. At first Samantha would come knocking on my door everyday. She’d knock then look for movement through the windows. I’d just lay on the floor watching the dust dance in the sunbeams listening to her holler, “Brian?” Over and over again she called out. As the weeks moved on like a funeral march, Samantha would appear less and less. Finally, I’m not sure when, but she gave up on me just as my mother had.
Most of the food that was left in the house was spoiled but I ate it anyhow. When I ran out I’d dumpster dive for food at the nearby grocery. Years had gone by like this without T.V., radio, or even electricity. I grew to the age of twenty-three with only my thoughts as company. These thoughts, my only friends I knew were far from healthy.
That is when I heard those sharp, frozen whispers again. Those otherworldly glaciers began to break away again, singing me the word, epiphany.” Yes, it was certainly an epiphany. I knew that the human brain only uses up to ten percent of its capabilities. That means that our brain has lots of desert for tumbleweeds to form routes in, turning with the win. The tumbleweeds are like our ideas; free to go wherever it chooses without a single obstacle. As we get older we form obstacles in our desert that doesn’t allow the weeds to follow through to conclusion. With age we stop wondering where the path might have taken the weeds. Then we no longer care where these tumbleweeds began in the first place. Our imagination becomes as dry as a prostitute’s abused cunt. People begin to take television as a religion petrified by fear. They want the right deodorant, breath spray, and the newest technology to be approved by their peers. Everybody wants that happy life on, “Fully House” and the canned laughter that follows. Once they get a nine to five job to get these things they find that they are an adult. By this time the only way out is suicide. The desert in your brain begins to eat away at the ten percent of greenery you have left. This is the garden of youth. Without and ocean to reflect, your sky becomes shit brown. What’s left of your ten percent is now decaying swamp. This swamp is where you sink into adulthood and you will whither with only swamp gas to breathe. Because of all these reasons, is why I, Brain Freemont had chosen to declare war on youth.
My first kill was over in Stanley Park. No kid should have been there alone anyway. The bathrooms were covered in enough spray paint to express, “Fuck everything!” The monkey bars were so rusted it looked like the structure was straining its spine to stay up. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the water fountains were piped into the nearest sewage pond. But there, over at the swings squeaking obnoxiously back and forth was my kill. I approached from behind the child and had to hear him speak. “What time is it I asked?” He rudely ignored me so I grabbed the chain and swung him off the swing, “now are you going to answer me?”
“Tommy,” the boy said as he climbed up from the ground.
I noticed something peculiar about the poor boy. Maybe it was the eyes. Yes, I think it was how far his eyes were spaced apart. The child has been cheated out of youth even worse than I had. I had to put him out of his misery. Living with Down Syndrome to an old age would’ve been a horrible dying life. So, I swung with all the rage from deep inside and with a crack the boy flew into a heap. He looked up with his nose cartilage flattened and his tongue was licking up the mucus and blood. I then kicked him in the ribs and heard another horrible crack. The boy was now going ballistic; he whipped out his little penis and began jerking it crying all the while. All I could do was stomp him and stomp him until all was silent except for the swing that still creaked.
Mind you that I said first kill and not victim. There was a young girl that I had abducted the same night I declared war. She was bound and gagged then locked into a barn on the outskirts of town. I’d just get to her later that night.
I was suddenly amazed as I walked the streets after leaving the park when I saw her. Well, she saw me. “Brian?” She called.
“Yes,” tears almost came to my eyes as they met hers. The wind was whipping her dark hair around, thick like a dark lager flowing.
“Where have you been all these years?” Samantha gave me the warmest hug I’ve ever felt.
“Oh, yeah,” she couldn’t wipe the smile off her face, it was the same high school crush continued. “And where’s that?”
“The same place.”
“Oh,” she looked a little confused but brushed it off. “What are you doing tonight?”
“I have someone to meet, but then I’m free.”
“Would you want to meet me at nine tonight at Stanley Park?”
“What about the City Park instead?”
“Wherever, it doesn’t matter. We’ve some catching up to do.”
“I’d love to meet you in City Park. By the fountain?”
“I’ll be there but I got to run now.”
The grace in her step, the porcelain flesh, and those green eyes that promised youth could come of her were all guilty of my giddiness. The twilight raised bumps from my flesh and I headed to the barn where I hid the girl.
The girl was mine. Her youth was mine. The barn was in the middle of nowhere. The barn was unused and the surrounding field was only visited b shroomers from time to time.
I had lit a single lantern and the interior of the barn was illuminated in gold. The girl was sitting in the middle of the floor. She had auburn hair like spilt cherry coke just above the red rubber ball forced into her mouth by leather straps. Beneath her hair, I’m pretty sure her eyes were hazel and certainly juicy with tears. I had stripped her of the frog pajamas. I hate frogs and they were all smiling at me. Her wrists were bound to her ankles; she could be no more vulnerable. All I needed was my pocketknife for this kill. I supposed that I better get started; I had her waiting almost twenty-four hours. As I approached her she tried to retreat, completely nude except for my shadow. First I sliced just below her tiny nipple. The blood that poured had my heart and adrenaline banging. I just went to fucking town. I sliced her pretty face all up and stopped to watch her wiggle. Her blood was black in the golden light. I began to lick up her tears, those tears of youth that were taken away from me. I can hardly remember ever crying. Then I licked up her mucus, thick and salty. Finally I drank of her blood. Her warm blood was flowing steady as a faucet. I finished her off by gutting her from naval to sternum. I pulled each organ out one at a time. She was still breathing when I pulled her lungs out. I began playing with her guts and I must have squeezed and organ too hard because she pissed and shit all over herself before she died. When I was finished there I burned down the old barn with my clothes inside of it. I had fresh clothes in which to meet Samantha outside in my book sack.
The rendezvous with Samantha at the fountain went perfect. We just continued from where we left off no questions asked. Before we parted she stole my heart and virginity. I made love for the first time. It was all uphill from there. The children I’d kill were very few and far between. Nothing could compare to the sex I had with her. The taste of her sweat and moist Venus mound would drive me mad, as if I weren’t already. My orgasms that be stilled my heart made me wish it would never beat again.
Who would have thought I would get married. Samantha Martin is now Samantha Freemont. She promised me that I’d never have to work. I was in love. Between Sam being a nurse and I receiving crazy checks we were able to settle in the suburbs. The cops didn’t even have a trial to follow so I had no worries about the sixteen children I murdered. Stupid pigs believed the child killer was from out of state.
Finally, we had a son. Jacob Freemont was the new light of my life. He was my second chance at youth. I could give my boy the incredible childhood that I never had. My war with Youth had ended. My son was my youth.
I never completely stopped my voyeurism. Once I peered into a window and was seized by disgust. I could make out two nude figures embraced in sexual intercourse. It was by the dim light of a lamp that I was able to see the big picture. The room was covered in wallpaper with the Smurfs on it. Man I hate the Smurfs. Anyway, the small bed that they were fucking on was covered in Cabbage Patch dolls. The girl that this fat, hairy fuck was banging could be none other than his daughter. It was sickening, the way he had her legs propped on his shoulders. As the young girl just lied there with her legs up and spread like a surrendering arm gesture. Not a peep came out of her as she was forfeiting her youth. When the father spun her around onto her knees and elbows I caught a glint of tears in her eyes. The bastard spread her ass cheeks and inserted petroleum jelly into the tighter orifice. Before he could impale the tiny body straight into her guts I had had enough. I just stared at the dew on the grass and walked away. I didn’t make it too far when I pictured my own son, Jacob getting molested. My blood began to boil and I turned back around. I swiftly busted thought the pedophiles front door, which landed me in the kitchen. I grabbed a butcher knife out of a drawer and met the fat piece of shit in the hallway as he was pulling on some briefs. I stuck the blade into his groin. The louder he screamed the further I carved upward. I had him hanging on the hallway wall by the sharp knife. As it reached his chest I could hear his ribs crack, one by one and notch-by-notch the knife raise further. When it reached his neck I jammed it into the wall and left him hanging. I noticed that the little girl was watching the while time. She didn’t see the least bit upset but I figured I should say something. “He was a bad man,” is all that came out.
“Are you going to do the nasty thing with me now?” These words and her innocence had me confused.
“No,” I replied. “No, I won’t”
“Before leaving I took a shower and put on some of the fat man’s clothes. They were way too big but it worked. On the way back home to my beautiful family I ditched my blood soaked clothes in the gutter.
It was the next day that it happened. I can’t remember exactly how it happened. For some reason or other we just weren’t paying enough attention. A car hit little Jacob, at only five years old. The car just hit and run, lucky for them because I would have killed everybody in that fucking car. When I ran out to him I thought he was already dead. I raised his head and his hair was all matted with blood. He told me that he was sick and that he loved me before he breathed his final breath. That final breath ended my second chance at youth.
So once again I declare war on youth. Brian Freemont and Samantha Martin are of course, made up names. I am sending this letter out to all the families in my area. Take this as a warning. If you love your child keep him or her safe because I will be out there watching.