By the way folks, don't know where CoCo will go with the story, numerous roads to go down, assume nothing. I almost did , looking forward to further instalments.
He Killed Our Father
by compound complex 123 Replies latest members meetups
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compound complex
Thanks, Quentin, for the posts and PM.
I wonder, too, where it's headed. I get a single thought, perhaps excited by external stimuli, and then incidents long forgotten or emotions lain dormant emerge after having twisted and writhed within. They burst out of my skull and leave my withered frame scathed, useless.
CoCo Popped
[voiceover in police custody, as Norman is thinking] It's sad, when a mother has to speak the words that condemn her own son. But I couldn't allow them to believe that I would commit murder. They'll put him away now, as I should have years ago. He was always bad, and in the end he intended to tell them I killed those girls and that man... as if I could do anything but just sit and stare, like one of his stuffed birds. They know I can't move a finger, and I won't. I'll just sit here and be quiet, just in case they do... suspect me. They're probably watching me. Well, let them. Let them see what kind of a person I am. I'm not even going to swat that fly. I hope they are watching... they'll see. They'll see and they'll know, and they'll say, "Why, she wouldn't even harm a fly..." -
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compound complex
A child's given name may, over his lifetime, prove significant; it may not. How are the happy parents to know if the newborn Michael will, in any manner, by any stretch of imagination, cause a slightly knowledgeable Bible reader to declare "who is like God?" Or the sweet, small daughter Susanna to conjure up in her beholder's eyes the image of a lily? Little could one mother realize, when naming her newborn after a favorite uncle, that her beautiful little tyke would, by his nature and by his looks, be a "conqueror."
Not all who vanquish, however, do so with the predetermined goal of subjugating their fellow man or woman, particularly those so emotionally in the thrall of a so-called king of hearts. One young man, by his natural charm and his sunny, appealing Mediterranean good looks, caught the eye of too many women - and men. A doer of multiple tasks that would make him a few bucks, this strapping lad was asked by the neighbor lady to help with digging a hole for her new, 5-gallon silver maple. By nature artless and by youth unprepared to confront a cougar's wiles, he could not have guessed that the sugar cookies and iced tea spiked in stealth were a prelude to seduction. Does conquest, therefore, come by the mere holding of a title or, in the case of a designing woman, by subterfuge?
Maggie's hair, normally put up in a chignon, was loose and flowing this already steamy morning, its auburn waves cascading down her white, bare shoulders.
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compound complex
It makes me physically ill when I think what Mildred had gone through in order to care for our little family. Not to mention sick at heart. Well, there. I guess I did mention it, but I don't care as I have to get this off my chest, even if it means yelling it out into the air. Better that no one hear my pained cries ...
After our first born came into the world - and what a joy he's been - Milly went downhill in her health. We both desperately wanted to have more children, but my dear wife's "female problems" made me decide I couldn't allow her to jeopardize what scant shreds of health remained in her frail body. I took care of matters, despite the perceived threat to my masculine ego: the inability to sire any more offspring. I loved my mate more than anything else in the world. It was no sacrifice.
Milly died shortly afterwards, leaving father and son to fend for themselves. Desolate, hopeless, wanting to die, I had to pick myself up and carry on.
Vincent needed his daddy to be strong.
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compound complex
The carpet runner creeps along the floor, refusing to remain where I laid it.
This devious sidling by increments is done out of pure mischievousness, I am certain. I want to keep the house nice for my brother and me, especially for my brother, Vincent, as he is easily thrown off course by so mindless a matter as the visual chaos in a household not methodically kept. I am orderly, I am neat and I once read that Bette Davis, as a little, little girl was thrown into paroxysms of screaming at the circus because the circus floor - I believe it was a sort of canvas underlayment - was undulating, disorderly, where only a properly laid out floor would normally, logically have been de rigueur. Management should have been more astute, more sensitive. Surely, circus elephants are sensitive and aware.
This is how I recall the incident, but, of course, Vincent, my dear, disturbed but beloved brother, does not know this (we haven't yet discussed it as he insists on remaining preoccupied over the loss of his our father), but is, surely affected in a manner similar to that of the actress before she became one. He becomes disquieted when things and people and life are all askew and not within proper alignment. That is why I run a tight ship, a tight ship. He must come to grips with things as they are. He must get on board if we are to have any life together. Together.
Father is gone. Vincent must get over it. He must. I need help with the house. I cannot do it all on my own.
The runner keeps walking and I am getting angry that nothing stays where it should. Nothing. When I nail it down it bunches up and becomes impossible and I end up ripping out all the nails as it puddles and trips me. I want to throw it out the door, but Father says we must protect the floor beneath.
Nor do people stay where they should ... I cannot find Father. He is hiding again. He does that to get my goat. I am going to put a stop to this nonsense.
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Quentin
Hmmmmmmm....this gets better and better....
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compound complex
I was waiting for you, Quentin.
I was ... waiting ... for ... you, Quentin....
V's little brother
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compound complex
I worry about my little brother - yeah, "little brother" - as I never know what's on his mind.
He says so little yet I see those wheels working. He's smart like his mother. His mother. So much he doesn't know, can't know. He's fragile like his mother, beautiful like his mother. But he'll never know her. He thinks he does, but he can't. I won't let him. Jenny, my stepmother, raised me and loved me after Mom died. She loved the little guy, too, and treated him like he came from her own body. He thinks she was the real deal - God, Dad lost two wives, and now he's gone, too - but we've never told the little guy the truth ... afraid? I don't know. He's delicate emotionally, smart, too smart, like his mother. She's gone now ... gone from my empty and meaningless life....
I know it was wrong, but, O dear God, haven't I paid for my youthful indiscretions ten times over? She didn't think it was wrong. She was older and wiser, but cunning. Not a bad person, but out for what she could get ... and she got it ... me. How was I to know? She was so beautiful and she loved me so much. She said she did.
Maggie, where are you? Do you miss me? Do you miss him, too? When you handed him over to Mom and Dad to raise as their own, there wasn't a tear in your eye ... You weren't a bad person, but there wasn't a tear in your eye. That precious little boy with the red curls.
O God, will I ever be able to tell him the truth ...
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