Final Words of a Dead Man

He was born a horror. A twisted, bent human who was raised as a monster and will soon die like one. In his final words, we get to see the humanity behind the monster.

Every one of you are wondering the same things. Every one of you want to ask me the same questions. Why would I cause so many people so much pain? Why would I cause YOU so much pain? Well let me tell you something about pain.

 

I was born into pain. I've been told that when I came into this world, I was greeted by the cries of the attending nurse. The doctor thought it would be better if I was pronounced stillborn, and therefore, he never induced me to breath on my own. I was discarded by the doctor; put aside to be burned with the rest of the biological waste.

 

The doctor walked away to wait for me to die where he didn't have to see me. My mother called out in a drug induced stupor to see her baby as I flailed my mismatched arms and legs and turned bluer and bluer. The doctor and nurses shushed my mother and gave her a shot of something in her I.V. that quieted her down.

 

In one final act of desperation, my body convulsed, my diaphragm spasm'ed, and I cried out as my lungs filled with air for the first time.

 

I was moved to an empty room that had been turned into an impromptu nursery so that the other mothers and fathers wouldn't have to look at me. My mother wept for hours when she finally saw the child that had been given to her. She prayed to God for forgiveness for she couldn't imagine how she could have offended Him so greatly that He would give a baby such as myself to her.

 

My mother tried to love me. She was the only one in my life who ever tried to love me. But the shame she felt for haven given me life was more than she could bare. She took her own life rather than live her life in shame at being my creator.

 

My grandmother took me in and raised me. I lived in the basement away from the rest of the family. Every morning, Grandmother would awaken me with a doubled-over leather belt. She would whip my misshapen back as she reminded me that I was to blame for the death of her only daughter. I learned to bury my face in my pillow until she stopped. I turned once to cry out for mercy and felt the belt's sting across my face, arms, and chest.

 

When Grandmother had finished whipping me with the belt, she would leave. A tray with a bowl of creamed mush would be sitting on the floor for me. I used a piece of old wood I found on the floor as a makeshift spoon to eat it with. I had to keep it hidden from Grandmother, I had no idea what she might do if she knew I had it.

 

Grandmother would visit again in the evening. She would make me sit in front of her, and she would scold me as she whipped me. She would tell me that I had been a bad boy that day, and that although she doesn't know what I did, she knows that I was bad. 'It's the nature of little freaks to be bad,' she explained to me often.

She would leave a plate of left-overs for dinner for me. If the family went out for dinner, fortunately a rare occasion, I would get nothing except my evening beating for dinner.

 

No one else came into the basement. I heard voices above, but I never heard anyone talk about me or about the basement. I could hear parties, and holiday festivities, and gatherings above me. I would sometimes pretend that I was the guest of honor and imagine that a long line of social elites were waiting to shake my hand. I could never see their faces though. I had only ever seen one other person ... Grandmother.

 

One morning, I awoke to see Grandmother standing over me. Happy sounding music was coming from the floor above, and she was holding a small box wrapped in shiny paper. She told me that Santa had left a present for me and encouraged me to open it. I didn't know who Santa was or what a present was, but the pretty box excited me, and I tore it open.

 

The box was empty. Grandmother began whipping me while explaining that Santa only brings gifts for good boys and girls. Before I could get turned over, the strap caught me in my left eye and knocked me backwards. I landed on my back which caused me to turn onto my right side. Grandmother thought I was trying to escape so she struck out wildly losing her grip on one end of the belt. The belt buckle caught my right cheek and gouged a three inch cut. I managed to scramble into my usual defensive position. Grandmother finally tired and left me to my mush.

 

I learned how to speak and the meaning of words by listening to the voices upstairs. An official from the school board showed up one day asking questions. She said that their records indicated that a school age child lived at the residence, and she wanted to know why I had never attended school. Grandmother explained that it is in everyone's best interest that I continue to be "home schooled."

 

The school official demanded to speak with me to check out the progress of my home schooling. Grandmother told her that it wasn't wise to allow me to have visitors. The woman persisted and finally Grandmother gave in to her demands. She opened the basement door and called me upstairs.

 

She put out her hand to stop me on the top stair. Grandmother said, "Here he is."

The woman walked toward the basement door holding a tea cup which she dropped on the floor when she saw me. Grandmother closed and locked the basement door. The woman left that day and no one from the school board ever returned.

 

A day eventually came when Grandmother didn't come wake me up. She didn't come that night either. The next morning, she still didn't come. I could hear a lot of quiet talking upstairs, too quiet to make out what was happening. On the third day, the basement door opened and two strange men came down.

 

The men took me away to a special hospital. There were lots of other people there, though none that looked like me. Most of the people walked around in circles or in no particular direction at all. None of them seemed to see me. They kept pacing and never noticed me.

 

There were other people there. They would give me food and pills throughout the day. They would tell me one word commands like "eat," "drink," or "toilet." I didn't know how to respond other than to obey so I never talked to the other people.

 

A man with a beard came in one day. He led me to a room with a table and a chair on each side. He talked to me. He began to teach me things. Little things at first like shaking hands or saying 'hello Dr. Randall.' Over the years, he taught me a great deal. Most of what I know today I learned from him. He was the first person to show me a mirror and let me see what it was in myself that horrified others.

 

I saw how my face and body wasn't shaped like other people's. Sections of my face were sunken while others rolled like swollen mounds. A deep crease ran diagonally across the top of my head and only the occasional tufts of hair stood out. One eye was barely a slit while the other seemed to stick out so that the eye lid receded beyond the red edging. I looked at the scar on my right cheek and thought of Grandmother for the first time since coming to the hospital.

 

I eventually moved into a house that Dr. Randall ran. He said that it was "experimental." I learned how to live in that house. He taught me the skills I needed to take care of myself. He showed me little tricks to make life easier on myself ... which meant minimizing the time I was around others in public.

 

He would take me shopping at 3 A.M. at the all-night grocery store. Usually, I was the only customer. When there were other customers, they were generally drunk, and they just stared at me as if I was a hallucination.

 

When I did happen to see someone during the day, mothers would pull their children to them and hold them tightly until I was out of sight. I knew to expect the occasional scream or cry when I went out during the day. Dr. Randall tried to politely suggest that I avoid going out during the day unless necessary. But after so many years of never going outside, every day seemed to be increasingly necessary.

 

The people in my neighborhood never got accustomed to seeing me. Even those who saw me almost every day kept their distance. I would walk through the park and people would veer around me. Eventually, people stopped coming to the park during the time that I came. I had the park all to myself every day. I loved the park but it soon began to feel like I was still in Grandmother's basement.

 

I don't know exactly what happened to your loved ones, and I don't know who did the things that I am accused of. The police told me that there were several killings in the park. I never understood why they thought that I did it. I was told that the crimes happened over a long period of time and that the tortured, mutilated bodies were found in a mass grave in my park.

 

I don't understand what I have been accused of. All I understand is that my whole life has been nothing but pain and that my pain will end when they take my life today. My only hope is that whoever has caused you this much pain will be found out so that you may finally be at peace. If you believe in my innocence, cry not for me today. My pain is ending, and for that I am grateful.

 

Reviews

[Clay]

i thought this was very well written, i just didnt get the end. good read though, nice work.

[R.S. Wilder]

Did anyone else cry after reading this, or was it just me????