Master Of Silence.

Charles's father was abusive as he scared him for life never forgetting his beautiful loving mother.

The rats and roaches were rancid In his home as a child. Charles had an abusive father who wore the same dirty shirt every day and never showered or shaved. And a loving, beautiful mother with long red curls and makeup. He had an ordinary life at School but not many friends; he actually only had one friend named Fred who lived across the road, an only child with a mother and stepfather.

I would visit him, and when I was alone, his stepfather would punch me so hard In the gut. So hard sometimes I would be winded then look at me and say, “get lost, you’re a little s**t.!!” I never told Fred or his mother. As a child, I was always fascinated with books, not just any books But scary ones.

In the summer Fred and I would sit in his backyard next to a campfire and build a tent from his mother’s white sheets. I would hold a flashlight to my face and read Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde or passages from Edgar Allan Poe. To see who was scared the most.

Fred usually lost that contest; he would get so scared and come up with excuses that he had to go pee and run home, and I wouldn’t see him for the rest of the night. It was ok, I thought to myself and would sit alone and read. After that summer, I stopped seeing Fred because I was tired of being punched by his stepfather.

Sometimes the entire night would drift away Inside our tent. I would walk inside the house early in the morning, and my father would grab me by the scruff of the neck and say: “Where have you been? All night You little b*****d. Did you know I had to listen to your mother worry.!! I was sick of it. You make me puke, woman!!” As he shook me so hard, then slammed me into the wall.

“Frank.!! STOP STOP!!! Can’t you see he is scared enough God, you need to stop drinking; you're nothing but a drunk. !!” Said, my helpless mother.

“Shut your mouth, Louise. you filthy w***e.!!!!” As he spits on her with his dirty wet snot. Slapping her across the head, knocking her to the ground.

I looked Into my mother’s eyes filled with tears as she laid on the ground. My father picked me up, locked me In the hall closet. It was dark; the Rats and roaches came out from cracks and holes in the baseboards and crawled on me as the rats would bite my feet and arms. This became so frequent I became numb to the pain, so when my father would slam me into the wall or lock me In the closet, I would stare at him blankly, not even a single blink as if not to care.

“FU.” I would scream with a laugh. My father would open the door and slap me across the face, then slam it shut. As I could hear him storm off, I laughed even louder, making sure he could hear me.

My mother had an old doll I always talked to since I never had any friends. Well, not any real friends. I stole my mother’s lipstick and painted the doll’s lips and glue locks of her hair to make it look more like her. Then I would sneak Into the back yard and sit under a tree and have conversations on how I might kill my father. We would examine many different ways Poison, stabbing, arson. They all sounded intriguing.

 

Conditions became worse; my father spent more and more time with his girlfriend Linda; the kitchen cabinets were bare since he only gave my mother 20.00 every other week for food. As we lived off of powdered potatoes and powdered milk, sometimes a few eggs whatever my mother could scrounge up.

She met a kind lady named Karen, who lived down the road, and my mother explained our situation to her so she would give us homemade bread and muffins. Some of the muffins had too much oil, and I got food poisoning.

My father saw it sitting on the counter as it was left there for many days; it was crawling with maggots. He grabbed me by the back of his neck, sat me at the table, and forced me to eat it. Thankfully my mother saw what he was going to do and stopped him. That night He packed his bags and left us.

Life was good; once my father left us, my mother and I built a strong relationship since she was always there as a friend, guardian, and parent. The years went on, and I was getting older. I took a job as a night security guard In a factory In the evening.

I was always fearful something might happen to her while I was gone but just brushed that off and tried not to think such fearful thoughts. Until one day, I just got home from work and saw flashing lights of a police, ambulance, and morgue car parked in front of my house.

I froze. In fear, my eyes closed shut as I shook. “OH NO NO NO NO.!!!” This can’t be happening, I said to myself. A police officer approached me and asked if I lived there as they were taking my mother’s body out of the house, a stretcher draped in a sheet over her head. I took out my I.D to confirm who I was.

“What Happened.” I said morbidly.

“We got a 911 call around 2 am of someone that broke into your home. We suspect the killer hid inside the shower the operator heard a scream then the phone went silent, and when we arrived, we found her body dead on the bathroom floor. Stabbed 30 times with a butcher knife. The DNA testing found hair and blood spatter on the shower curtains also, and we think he had raped her first, then split her vagina with a razor blade.”

“Was he arrested.?” I asked.

“No, we have no leads to his whereabouts at this time; also, he had to have been wearing gloves because there are no fingerprints; all we have to go on is a footprint from the blood. But we will be In touch.” Said the Officer.

After that, Charles wasn't the same again, never In a relationship or got married. He lived alone, ate alone, never with any friends. This went on for many years as they never found who killed his mother. Eventually, Charles got his dream job working as a librarian at Western University.

In the evening, he would sit In a dark, drab moldy study. And mark in returned books and sometimes write nasty letters to those with late returns. Charles grew tired of this nightly task and would close his eyes to see a person’s shadow. But what person never knowing the outlines were rough and very dark. Other nights he would hear footsteps, doors opening and closing but knew he was alone. A year later, Charles read an article on a man shot and killed by police, a serial killer who murdered a woman In their bathrooms.

A smile gleamed across Charles’s face thinking of his dear deceased mother. Perhaps justice was served. Or maybe It wasn’t, but for all, he knew his killer was dead, another scum off the face of the earth. Charles continues today to see this Dark, rough shadow of a person In his mind. Still never knowing who it Is. He now resides at the oak meadow asylum. Never speaking…. … Never speaking…. … Never speaking.

The Master of Silence.

Author's Note

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