The Killer | Teen Ink

The Killer

December 31, 2007
By Breanne Coates BRONZE, Lebanon, Tennessee
Breanne Coates BRONZE, Lebanon, Tennessee
4 articles 0 photos 0 comments

"The killer awoke before dawn,
He put his boots on."

August 13th, 1999. Sitting on the couch, about nine years of age, wrapped in a down comforter concealing my body covered only by underwear and a shirt from Jamaica brought back by my aunt. I watched as my father slowly descended into the living room from the kitchen. The glazed-over look of his eyes will haunt me forever. He walked to the chair and instead of sitting down… he fell. The fan precariously shook from the ceiling. I sprung from the couch and managed to up heave my father's 220-pound body from the carpet-covered floor. I don't even remember what happened after that.

"He took a face from the ancient gallery,
And he walked on down the hall."


7 P.M.— not home

9:15 P.M.— still not home.

11:30 P.M.— still not home.

1 A.M.— home...strung out on painkillers.
No words, just glances exchanged, and everyone returned to the solace of their warm beds and all was well.

November 18th, 2003. Speaking in whispers is the worst way to talk. It causes such a feeling of anxiety. "Pack what you need for tonight. We're staying at Memere's." I couldn't even recall what had caused such a sudden flee until recently. I guess the mind has a way of forgetting what it doesn’t want to remember. My mother and I stood in the farthest corner of the living room as my father yelled at my brother and grabbed him by the shirt collar, ripping him from his chair. Then we picked up our bags and went to school. This was the beginning of the end.

"He went into the room
where his sister lived and,"

"Suppressive fire differs from lethal fire (i.e. shoot-to-kill) in that its primary objective is to get the enemy to "keep their heads down" and thus reduce their ability to move, shoot, or observe their surroundings. While soldiers may be injured or killed by suppressive fire, this is not its main purpose. To be effective, suppressive fire must be continuous enough to keep the enemy suppressed-- that is, always thinking of staying safe behind cover. As long as the enemy can be kept fearful of the next round coming in, they will not be thinking of moving or shooting back. If there is so much incoming fire that the enemy can not move or shoot, the enemy is pinned."

November 20th, 2003. Returned home. So many questions. The fear was thick in the air. I'm so remorseful now that I wasn't able to stand up to my father then, because it would've prevented so many things that followed this day. I was frozen. My mother's eyes were pleading for me to tell my father how angry I was. Her opinion was meaningless to him. The fate of this family teetered in the palms of hands. I opened my mouth to speak but the firm grip of fear clenched my throat and I was silenced. The deception continued.

"then he paid a visit to his brother,
and then he,
he walked on down the hall."

Sitting by the phone.

Sunday— no call.

Monday— no call.

Tuesday— no call.

Wednesday— still no call.

Thursday— still no call.

Friday— we called...he was in North Carolina...on vacation.

He didn't think it would matter if he called or not. What was the big deal?

May 24th, 2004. An empty house came as such a relief, until I realized I wasn't alone. My father rushed out of the back room on his cell phone into the upstairs bathroom. I knew something was going to happen that night and he hadn't even said two words to me. His voice crept through the cracks in the walls and under the doors. "I love you,” he said. "If I didn't care I wouldn't still be here." Time would only tell who was on the receiving end of those words.

Lies. Bruises. Scars. Tears. Deception. Filth. Relieve me of my burden,

"And he came to a door,
And he looked inside,"

"Aside from being a necessary condition to the achievement of justice, national liberation is the only solution to the great world problems of territorial disputes and oppressive national rule."

March 6th, 2007. Being in public places with him was always the worst. I could feel all eyes on me— peering under my skin. Sitting at the table everything seemed all right, until the waitress came. He couldn't even speak. He was slumped over the table, the only thing holding him up. His blinking slowed and his lips pulled away from his gums. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth to the transparent cover of the menu. I desperately searched the waitress’s face as if the answers to all these problems were burrowed deep within her pores. She came back a second time, only to find him even worse. His arms hung at his sides like two lead weights and his head looked as if it could roll right off his neck. He mustered the strength to speak. I couldn’t believe how pathetic he was in this moment. He pointed to the picture of shrimp and managed to slur out, "Shrrr-". Tears careened down my cheeks in a molten wave as my brother hid his face in the hood of his sweatshirt. I dared not to ask my father to move out of the booth because I was terrified of what would happen if he tried to stand. I climbed over the back of the booth and went to the bathroom to call someone, anyone, who could get us out of this. A short while later I spotted my friend’s car pulling up outside the restaurant. All of a sudden I felt a hot rage thick on my tongue. I wished I could scream. Instead I looked my father in the eye and whispered, "You're ridiculous." He denied everything. He claimed he was perfectly fine that night. Shortly after this I called him, only to be greeted by his voicemail. "F*** you, Dad. I never want to see you again. I don't even care, I don't care what you think of me, I don't care what you do. You possess nothing that I admire."

"Yes, son?"
"I want to kill you."

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