Chapters of Chastication

Exercise in Supidity
2005-03-02 00:51:15 (UTC)

First Chapter: The Creep's Shrink Commits Suicide

The Creep was sprawled atop a worn vinyl couch in the
basement office of an alcoholic that sometimes passed for a
psychiatrist. A heavy layer of dust coated the furniture
in the unkempt surroundings, clinging to the diplomas on
the wall and the shelves of books long unused.

“For the last time,” the voice belonging to the doctor
snapped, “I am sick and tired of hearing about your stupid,
crappy, good for nothing life. Twenty years you have been
forcing yourself into my intoxicated delusions and twenty
years I have tried to drink and kill myself stupid to stand
your presence. I have never had a desire to be your
psychiatrist but you, being so used to rejection, did not
notice. You came and talked and whined and cried and
begged me to help you. How many times have I threatened to
end my life and you have intervened? Cutting my ropes,
unstuffing my gags, calling the ambulance so that you could
bore me to death with your voice and your stupidity.”

Silence stretched between the two occupants of the room
before the voice continued unsteadily. “This is it for me,
the absolute end. I cannot be the father figure you want; I
cannot shove something in your anus. I cannot pretend to
like shoving something up my anus and to like it, as you
obviously do. You should do the world a favor and hurl
yourself at cement from the top of the highest bloody
structure in the bloody world You should.... I can’t—“ a
gunshot blast echoed in the room and moisture hit the
beast’s face like a spit. The sound of the body hitting
the vinyl floor seemed to linger with the dust motes in the
air and then there was the silence interrupted by the
Creep’s whimpering.

The Creep remembered the first time he had heard the sound
of a gunshot, closed his eyes, and covered his mouth with
his hands to keep the scream contained. The colors burst
behind his eyes and formed fragments that melted into one
another, shards of memories that stabbed at his mind.

The trailer was little more than a tin box dropped on
crumbling casement blocks on an overgrown field at the end
of a mud rut that went for driveways in those secluded
parts. The path to the home snaked past the dump and
between trees that stood out on the homestead as replicas
of his family- limbless, their growth stunted and deformed,
and going nowhere but to rot. The trail skirted past the
line of sheds left in various degrees of lean, their
misshapen metal doors and sunken roofs appeared weathered
and worn.

Just in front of the trailer, to the right of a door
hanging off its hinges beneath an awning that had seen its
share of pissing contests and fires, if not better days,
was a row of unwashed toilets torn from the inside of the
trailer throughout the years. They were spread haphazardly
before his childhood home with plastic pop crates for
tables scattered between them to allow for visitors to sit
and shoot the shit, as the family was prone to do. Scraps
of newspaper nailed to the outside of the trailer and in-
between the toilets rustled in the breeze. A cesspool sat
off to one side, the overly related family’s version of a
trout pond with fish guts sticking up amid the lumps of
decades old crap.

He supposed that he had always known that he was little
more than a drab, graceless caricature of the socially
inept. He was at times as pathetic as he was comically
grotesque with his jerky, exaggerated speech patterns and
distorted thought processes that marked him as one of the
universally stupid back when stupid was a term not yet
replaced by the politically correct labels of ‘retard’
or ‘developmentally delayed’.

His knew he was the sort of being that passed from a
person’s memory as soon as he passed from their view.
Hadn’t everyone who had come in contact with him said so?
He was used to being an undeveloped creature that moved in
the shadows of the life around him as though he was as
uncomfortable in his own skin as people were to be around

He squeezed his eyes until to stop the threat of tears.
How many times had his mother told him about his flawed
conception that became a partial abortion that then mutated
into a beast prone to ridicule. How many times had people
looked upon him with a mix of pity and horror, pointing,
laughing, taunting, screaming- the women were always

Screaming at him, making him wet himself, making him hard.

He wanted them to stop and never-stop at the same time. He
survived in a perpetual haze of confusion.

The trailer door opened on squeaky hinges in his mind and
he stepped through the portal to the place of his childhood
abuse, that unbalanced place in his mind that made his body
stiffen and his fingers curl into his palms with the
tension of someone who had long lived in a state of fear of
what was to come.

While child-rearing experts had been espousing the
importance of the first tow years of a human’s life as
being key to their psycho-social development and their
future successes in navigating the world as healthy, happy,
and productive individuals, the beast had been kept in
soiled diapers in the back of a trailer’s closet.
Wedged between a chipped, neon green bowling ball and the
hot water heater, his only sense of stimulation was the
sound of beer bottles breaking against the closet door, the
scent of the marinated in urine smell that clung to and
chafed his flesh, and the taste of earwigs in his mouth.

He moved past the broken table in his mind, stepping over
the shattered beer bottles of his mother’s last drunk
before he was taken away by the social services department
responsible for developmentally vulnerable, or rather
adults of the retarded persuasion. He inhaled sharply the
still lingering scent of his own urine and feces that hung
in the air of his memories.

He had been on his hands and knees in the closet, the dog’s
wet tennis ball stuffed in his mouth and held there by duct
tape wrapped around his head to hold it in place and keep
his moans below that of his mother who was screaming with
pleasure on the trailer floor outside his closet.

His arms were tied behind his back and his head was bent
forward so that his chin touched his knees, a submissive
pose he had long become used to and comfortable with. He
recalled the cool breeze slipped over the raw flesh on his
ass from a hole in the wall. The trailer rocked and he
heard the rustle of fabric at his back, the sound of a belt
being loosened, the feel of the cold buckle as it torn into
his back and then the feel of the cool, calloused hands of
his mother’s most recent sexual partner close on his ass
cheeks and spread him open.

He could still feel the invasion, feel the pulsing pressure
forcing itself deeper into his puckered hole made slick
with his own blood. The voices on the other side of the
door had turned into a slurring rendition of the song
repeating on the record player and as his mother wailed the
last word of the tune the Creep knew that what people said
about it being over when the fat lady sang was true-
because he was at last released, the man at his back having
spent himself completely with one last body shuddering

The Beast’s eyes flew open and he found himself once more
in the present, wondering how the lamp pole ended up wedged
up his anus. He started to draw it out, then changed his
mind, slipped it back in, and changed his mind once
more. He eventually finished, dropped the object to the
floor, and raised himself off the prone body of the man who
had been the only confident, albeit a reluctant one, that
the Creep had ever had.

The sweat sluiced from his brow and he cast a flicking look
at window where sunlight now slipped through the sagging
gray aluminum slats of the window blinds. Several hours
had past since the psychiatrist had shot himself, of that
he was sure. He stood shakily and walked with an uneven,
battered gait to the door.