James was scared. He was never at school before. He didn’t know what to do there. He didn’t want his mommy to leave him there. He wanted to go back home and play with his toys. “Be good. Do whatever the teacher tells you. And I’ll be here to collect you when school finishes,” she said, trying to be reassuring. “What time does school finish?” James asked, hoping that it would be very shortly after it started. “At one o’clock,” she answered him. James didn’t know how to tell the time, but he knew one was the first number so it couldn’t be that long until one o’clock. “Will I be home in time to see the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” James asked, hoping he wouldn’t miss his favourite cartoon. “Yes, of course,” his mother replied, “now go sit down and I’ll talk to you later.” She kissed him goodbye and then left. James felt like crying, but he knew that big boys weren’t supposed to cry and he was a big boy now, because he was at school.
James sat down next to another boy who was wearing a Ninja Turtles t-shirt. “Hello,” James greeted his fellow cartoon fan. “Hi,” replied the other boy, “my name is Shane. What’s your name?” “I’m James. This is my first day here. How does school work?” “I don’t know. It’s my first day too. My big sister said it is easy, but she told me not to cry and lots of boys and girls cry on their first day, but I’m not going to cry, because nothing bad is going to happen. Are you going to cry?” Shane asked curiously. “No. Big boys don’t cry. Crying is for babies. I don’t know anything about school, except that it’s over at one o’clock. My mommy told me that. I like your t-shirt.” “Thanks. Who’s your favourite? I like Michaelangelo because he’s funny.” James decided that school might not be too bad and answered Shane’s question, “I like Raphael. He’s cool and he has a red mask. Red is my favourite colour. What’s your favourite colour?” “Blue. I like blue so much, that my Dad painted my room blue. I love my Dad.” “I don’t have a Dad. Just a mommy.” “Don’t be silly. Everyone has a Dad.” “Well I don’t. My mommy said that he had an axe dent and now he lives with Jesus.” “What’s an axe dent? Who’s Jesus?” “An axe dent is another word for a man who has an axe, so my Dad works in a forest chopping down trees and Jesus is the man who lives in the house with him.” “Oh,” was all Shane could get out before a lady, who must be the teacher said, “Quiet please!” James understood quiet. That meant no more talking.
The lady who asked for quiet was the teacher and her name was Ms O’Leary. James thought she was very nice and Shane said later on that he thought she was nice too. Ms O’Leary had a piece of paper with everyone’s name on it and when she said your name you had to say “anseo.” James didn’t know what anseo meant, but Shane told him later on that it was the Irish word for here. James found school funny. Every few minutes some of the girls and boys started crying and the teacher gave them a lollipop so that they would stop. James and Shane and some other boys in the class started laughing when somebody started crying, but Ms O’Leary told them it wasn’t funny so they stopped, but sometimes they could not help laughing and they tried to do it quietly, which was hard to do. James wanted a lollipop, but he didn’t want to cry, because the other boys would laugh at him and James would have to laugh at himself because that’s what you were supposed to do when people cried, apparently. James realised that even if he wanted the lollipop he wouldn’t be able to cry, because he didn’t have to, but so far, he liked school.
Soon after the crying stopped, Ms O’Leary told them it was lunchtime and that they were allowed to go outside and play for a while, but first they had to wait for the Janitor to bring them milk. The Janitor came in and gave them all a carton of milk and a small straw. Ms O’Leary helped some children with the straws, but James knew how to put a straw in and so did Shane so they went outside to play. “What’s a Janitor?” Shane asked James as they walked outside. James didn’t know, but assumed it was a fancy word for a milkman, so he said, “It’s a fancy word for a milkman.”
Once they drank their milk and ate the sandwiches their mommies had left them, they played Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with some of the other boys from their class. James was Raphael and Shane was Michaelangelo. A boy called Steven was Leonardo and a boy called Colin was Donatello. The smallest boy, Gabriel, was Splinter, because Splinter is smaller than everyone else. Three other boys called Stephen, Frank and Robert were Shredder, Bebop and Rocksteady. A boy called Jack was Krang and there was no girls to play, so they made the only other boy who was left, that wanted to play, be April. His name was Patrick and Stephen said he had to be the girl because he had glasses and people with glasses can’t fight and girls can’t fight so that’s why Patrick had to be the girl. Patrick accepted that logic and they began their game.
After lunchtime they all had to go back inside to the class again. Only a few people cried after lunch, but Ms O’Leary said those people couldn’t have anymore lollipops because they already had lollipops and too many lollipops were bad for your teeth, so instead she gave them apples. This made James and Shane and the other boys who they had been playing with laugh even more, because while they had been playing they all said they hated apples, and all fruit and vegetables, because they were good for you and everyone knows if something is good for you it doesn’t taste nice. After Ms O’Leary got them to stop laughing, a girl called Jessica stuck her hand up in the air and said “Ms? Ms? Ms, I pee’d.” That made James and Shane and the other boys and even some of the girls laugh again and this time they couldn’t stop. It was too funny. Jessica had pee’d herself.
When Ms O’Leary said school was over, James looked out the window and saw his mommy standing outside. James said goodbye to his new friends and said he would see them tomorrow and then he went out to his mommy and she asked him how school was and James told her everything that happened and said he liked school a lot and he definitely wanted to go back tomorrow. “Good”, his mommy said when he said this and smiled to herself, thinking, as if he had a choice.
02 December, 2009
01 December, 2009
Marital Bliss (A Duologue I wrote for a Creative Writing class a few years ago)
“Tea?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Coffee?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“How about an egg sandwich?”
“For fuck sake Minah, I said I’m fine. I don’t want any fucking food or drink.”
“I’m worried about you Harold. You hardly eat anymore. Ever since Edward…”
An eerie silence furnishes the room.
“Don’t talk about Edward, Minah. I don’t want to hear you talk about him.”
“Harold, he is our son, we can’t not talk about him.”
“He was our son, Minah. Not anymore.”
“How can you say that? We raised him.”
“Raised him! Raised him! We raised a fucking rapist! A Murderer! A Paedophile! He’s dead to me and I don’t want to hear his name mentioned in this house.”
“He made a mistake. We all make mistakes. God knows you’ve made your fair share of mistakes as well.”
“Don’t you compare me to that bastard. I might have made mistakes Minah, but he raped a four year old girl and killed her. That’s not a fucking mistake. He can rot in hell for all I care.”
“He wasn’t right in the head at the time. You heard what the doctors said.”
“Fuck the doctors. What do they know? Right in the head or not, what he did was unforgivable.”
“He was ill, Harold. He had a brain tumour. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“I’ve been ill, but I never raped or killed.”
“It’s not the same and you know it. Edward was always such a good boy. He would’ve never hurt a fly if it wasn’t for-”
“Stop talking about Edward. I don’t want to hear what you have to say. My name, my reputation, has been ruined because of that boy.”
“Your reputation was ruined long before Edward. Or have you forgotten about your affair with my sister?”
“You bring that up every fucking time we have an argument. Yeah, so I fucked your sister. It was forty years ago. Get over it.”
“Get over it? Get over it? We were married at the time. I was expecting our son and you were having it off with my younger sister. You got her pregnant too, remember? And then you forced her to get rid of the baby. How can you expect me to get over that?”
“Alright then. If you want to talk about me fucking your sister, then we’ll fucking talk about it. You were never as good in bed as she was. I always wished I had married her instead of you. I never loved you, Minah. You were always only second best. Now that we’re on the subject, Betty wasn’t the only other woman I fucked since we’ve been married.”
“What?”
“Hell, she wasn’t even the only woman in your family.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh come on, Minah. Use your head. Don’t tell me you never saw how your mother used to look at me… How she used to act around me… She was bored with your father. He just couldn’t satisfy her, the way that I could. Your mother was a fine woman. What is it the kids call them these days? MILF? Mother I’d Like To Fuck? Your mother was a MILF back in her day, alright. I still remember the first time I fucked her. It was Christmas Eve. You and Betty went with your father to buy her a Christmas present. I had to stay behind and distract her. I distracted her alright. I distracted her more than once. Oh, she was a talented one. Taught me all sorts of things. I taught her a thing or two myself. I wonder if she ever did to your father what she did to me?”
“Shut up. Just shut up. I hate you. I hate you. Drop dead, you son of a bitch. I never want to see you again,” she spat venomously as she left the room, slamming the door behind her, struggling to hold back the tears.
“If only it were that easy to get rid of you,” he roared after her, before returning to his newspaper, knowing well that she’d be back. She’d never leave him. She wouldn’t have the courage…
“No, I’m fine.”
“Coffee?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“How about an egg sandwich?”
“For fuck sake Minah, I said I’m fine. I don’t want any fucking food or drink.”
“I’m worried about you Harold. You hardly eat anymore. Ever since Edward…”
An eerie silence furnishes the room.
“Don’t talk about Edward, Minah. I don’t want to hear you talk about him.”
“Harold, he is our son, we can’t not talk about him.”
“He was our son, Minah. Not anymore.”
“How can you say that? We raised him.”
“Raised him! Raised him! We raised a fucking rapist! A Murderer! A Paedophile! He’s dead to me and I don’t want to hear his name mentioned in this house.”
“He made a mistake. We all make mistakes. God knows you’ve made your fair share of mistakes as well.”
“Don’t you compare me to that bastard. I might have made mistakes Minah, but he raped a four year old girl and killed her. That’s not a fucking mistake. He can rot in hell for all I care.”
“He wasn’t right in the head at the time. You heard what the doctors said.”
“Fuck the doctors. What do they know? Right in the head or not, what he did was unforgivable.”
“He was ill, Harold. He had a brain tumour. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“I’ve been ill, but I never raped or killed.”
“It’s not the same and you know it. Edward was always such a good boy. He would’ve never hurt a fly if it wasn’t for-”
“Stop talking about Edward. I don’t want to hear what you have to say. My name, my reputation, has been ruined because of that boy.”
“Your reputation was ruined long before Edward. Or have you forgotten about your affair with my sister?”
“You bring that up every fucking time we have an argument. Yeah, so I fucked your sister. It was forty years ago. Get over it.”
“Get over it? Get over it? We were married at the time. I was expecting our son and you were having it off with my younger sister. You got her pregnant too, remember? And then you forced her to get rid of the baby. How can you expect me to get over that?”
“Alright then. If you want to talk about me fucking your sister, then we’ll fucking talk about it. You were never as good in bed as she was. I always wished I had married her instead of you. I never loved you, Minah. You were always only second best. Now that we’re on the subject, Betty wasn’t the only other woman I fucked since we’ve been married.”
“What?”
“Hell, she wasn’t even the only woman in your family.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Oh come on, Minah. Use your head. Don’t tell me you never saw how your mother used to look at me… How she used to act around me… She was bored with your father. He just couldn’t satisfy her, the way that I could. Your mother was a fine woman. What is it the kids call them these days? MILF? Mother I’d Like To Fuck? Your mother was a MILF back in her day, alright. I still remember the first time I fucked her. It was Christmas Eve. You and Betty went with your father to buy her a Christmas present. I had to stay behind and distract her. I distracted her alright. I distracted her more than once. Oh, she was a talented one. Taught me all sorts of things. I taught her a thing or two myself. I wonder if she ever did to your father what she did to me?”
“Shut up. Just shut up. I hate you. I hate you. Drop dead, you son of a bitch. I never want to see you again,” she spat venomously as she left the room, slamming the door behind her, struggling to hold back the tears.
“If only it were that easy to get rid of you,” he roared after her, before returning to his newspaper, knowing well that she’d be back. She’d never leave him. She wouldn’t have the courage…
17 November, 2009
Cian Vs. The Giant Puddle Of Mud
Earlier this evening, while on one of my epic journeys through Southern Dublin Suburbia, I decided to take what I believed to be a shortcut, so that I'd reach my destination in a timely fashion. I had strolled 7 minutes into this shortcut when I stumbled upon what can only be described as a river of liquid mud, obstructing my path.
I quickly weighed up my options and realised that I could -
a) backtrack to where the shortcut began and add a further fifteen minutes or more to my journey...
b) wade through the ankle deep mud river, so as not to loose any more time...
c) grow wings and fly over to the otherside of mud valley...
d) waste more time coming up with more options...
After asking myself what would House do, I began to make my way slowly through the puddle, watching the mud devour my lovely clean Vans.
Once I had made my way through the squelchy mud, I suddenly wished that I was one of those people who carried tissue paper with them wherever they went, so I could clean the mud off before it dried in.
Unfortunately, I am not one of those people, and as the mud set in to my shoes I wished for a shower of rain to wash it away, but of course the one time in this Country when you want a bit of sky tears, they're a no show and as I had feared the mud set in.
By the time I got home, I wasn't arsed attempting a cleaning job, so will do so in the morning, but I believe the Giant Puddle Of Mud won this battle, but someday soon the sun will come out and the puddle of mud will dry and die, and then I will laugh...
I quickly weighed up my options and realised that I could -
a) backtrack to where the shortcut began and add a further fifteen minutes or more to my journey...
b) wade through the ankle deep mud river, so as not to loose any more time...
c) grow wings and fly over to the otherside of mud valley...
d) waste more time coming up with more options...
After asking myself what would House do, I began to make my way slowly through the puddle, watching the mud devour my lovely clean Vans.
Once I had made my way through the squelchy mud, I suddenly wished that I was one of those people who carried tissue paper with them wherever they went, so I could clean the mud off before it dried in.
Unfortunately, I am not one of those people, and as the mud set in to my shoes I wished for a shower of rain to wash it away, but of course the one time in this Country when you want a bit of sky tears, they're a no show and as I had feared the mud set in.
By the time I got home, I wasn't arsed attempting a cleaning job, so will do so in the morning, but I believe the Giant Puddle Of Mud won this battle, but someday soon the sun will come out and the puddle of mud will dry and die, and then I will laugh...
26 April, 2009
Non-honourable Ninjas, Tiny Terrorists & Geeky Gunslingers
Gone are the days of stereotypical blockbuster type heroes and villains.
Equal rights has skyrocketed and we no longer expect ninjas to be noble, terrorists to be middle-eastern, or action heroes to be like John McClane in Die Hard.
We never really know what goes through people's heads (most of the time we have trouble knowing what's going on in our own heads), which begs the question is there anyone we can really ever trust? And if so, how do we know who to trust? Can we even trust ourselves?
In the past week I've had light-hearted discussions about hypothetical terrorism, the possible prevention of complete carnage, and general ethics. Despite the light-hearted nature of most of these conversations, there is still a dark undertone to each of them, which got me thinking...
Ninjas are more often than not associated with honour and grace, however I personally know of one ninja who is neither honourable nor graceful, and who clearly hasn't discovered deodorant. How someone can sneak into your home while you watch television, steal the television set from right under your nose, and then steal the clothes off your back for good measure, is beyond me, and yet it has happened (well maybe not quite so literal, but you get my point). Now, even I can respect thieving ninjas, provided I don't know them and they don't consider me a friend before and after stealing from me. The worst part is when you know who the ninja who has stolen from you is, but you can't prove it because of their super-ninja thieving techniques. What sort of world are we living in when we can't even feel safe from thieving and tomfoolery in our own homes. A message to all you sneaky, uncool ninjas out there - stop stealing from your mates, you're giving all the good ninjas a bad name.
People from the middle-east have always gotten a bad name when it comes down to the whole terrorism thing, which of course is ridiculous - there are terrorists everywhere - we need only look at the Northern Irish situation to see that. On the other hand it's certainly getting to the point where you can't tell who's capable of what. Can we truly rule anyone out as a possible terrorist? Could the person at the desk next to you in the office be a terrorist or the person at the other side of the lecture theatre - maybe the lecturer is even strapped with a bomb. But why stop there? While someone was speaking to me about something incredibly boring the other day my mind wandered and I had, what at the time was, this hilarious image of a midget disguised as a small child in a pram in a playground with a gun. Then I thought, that's not actually funny - midgets can get guns as easily as anyone else, so the thought wasn't as ridiculous as it first seemed. But why stop there? How hard is it for children to get guns in some countries? Not hard at all, is the answer to that question. Subject some kids to some violent movies with guns and they'll be raring to shoot someone. So, even children may not be as innocent as they seem.
On the subject of guns, one of the other conversational topics I had this week, was in response to a sub-conversation about the shootings in schools in the States and in Germany. The question on my mind was if someone showed up to a public building I was in with a gun and was attempting to kill everyone, what would I do? What would you do? Most of us would say, there's nothing I can do - I'm no action hero. So would I just focus on trying to get myself out of there while innocent people are massacred? On the one hand that's an excellent idea - look after myself and try and get out alive. On the other hand, if I had the opportunity to possibly stop the gunman and save several lives, even if that means putting my own at a higher risk, would I take that risk? I've never even been in a fight, so what exactly could I do? Then again how hard can it be to tackle someone to the ground and give people the time to get the hell out of there? In theory I'd like to think I could do it and I honestly hope that it'll only ever be a theory and I'll never actually be in the situation where I'd have to put it into practice, but I guess you could never really know what you'd do unless you're in that position.
Just a couple of things that I've been thinking about recently and they do really raise the question is there anyone we can trust? My answer is we have to trust people. Not everyone, not even many, but if we don't trust anyone, how can we form any sort of relationships with people? Once the trust is gone, what's left? If you don't already trust people, learn to trust people or else you're the most likely candidate to be one of those thieving, immoral ninjas, or worse one of the terrorists...
Equal rights has skyrocketed and we no longer expect ninjas to be noble, terrorists to be middle-eastern, or action heroes to be like John McClane in Die Hard.
We never really know what goes through people's heads (most of the time we have trouble knowing what's going on in our own heads), which begs the question is there anyone we can really ever trust? And if so, how do we know who to trust? Can we even trust ourselves?
In the past week I've had light-hearted discussions about hypothetical terrorism, the possible prevention of complete carnage, and general ethics. Despite the light-hearted nature of most of these conversations, there is still a dark undertone to each of them, which got me thinking...
Ninjas are more often than not associated with honour and grace, however I personally know of one ninja who is neither honourable nor graceful, and who clearly hasn't discovered deodorant. How someone can sneak into your home while you watch television, steal the television set from right under your nose, and then steal the clothes off your back for good measure, is beyond me, and yet it has happened (well maybe not quite so literal, but you get my point). Now, even I can respect thieving ninjas, provided I don't know them and they don't consider me a friend before and after stealing from me. The worst part is when you know who the ninja who has stolen from you is, but you can't prove it because of their super-ninja thieving techniques. What sort of world are we living in when we can't even feel safe from thieving and tomfoolery in our own homes. A message to all you sneaky, uncool ninjas out there - stop stealing from your mates, you're giving all the good ninjas a bad name.
People from the middle-east have always gotten a bad name when it comes down to the whole terrorism thing, which of course is ridiculous - there are terrorists everywhere - we need only look at the Northern Irish situation to see that. On the other hand it's certainly getting to the point where you can't tell who's capable of what. Can we truly rule anyone out as a possible terrorist? Could the person at the desk next to you in the office be a terrorist or the person at the other side of the lecture theatre - maybe the lecturer is even strapped with a bomb. But why stop there? While someone was speaking to me about something incredibly boring the other day my mind wandered and I had, what at the time was, this hilarious image of a midget disguised as a small child in a pram in a playground with a gun. Then I thought, that's not actually funny - midgets can get guns as easily as anyone else, so the thought wasn't as ridiculous as it first seemed. But why stop there? How hard is it for children to get guns in some countries? Not hard at all, is the answer to that question. Subject some kids to some violent movies with guns and they'll be raring to shoot someone. So, even children may not be as innocent as they seem.
On the subject of guns, one of the other conversational topics I had this week, was in response to a sub-conversation about the shootings in schools in the States and in Germany. The question on my mind was if someone showed up to a public building I was in with a gun and was attempting to kill everyone, what would I do? What would you do? Most of us would say, there's nothing I can do - I'm no action hero. So would I just focus on trying to get myself out of there while innocent people are massacred? On the one hand that's an excellent idea - look after myself and try and get out alive. On the other hand, if I had the opportunity to possibly stop the gunman and save several lives, even if that means putting my own at a higher risk, would I take that risk? I've never even been in a fight, so what exactly could I do? Then again how hard can it be to tackle someone to the ground and give people the time to get the hell out of there? In theory I'd like to think I could do it and I honestly hope that it'll only ever be a theory and I'll never actually be in the situation where I'd have to put it into practice, but I guess you could never really know what you'd do unless you're in that position.
Just a couple of things that I've been thinking about recently and they do really raise the question is there anyone we can trust? My answer is we have to trust people. Not everyone, not even many, but if we don't trust anyone, how can we form any sort of relationships with people? Once the trust is gone, what's left? If you don't already trust people, learn to trust people or else you're the most likely candidate to be one of those thieving, immoral ninjas, or worse one of the terrorists...
25 April, 2009
For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn (a short story by Cian R. Taaffe)
Investigating a case like this is definitely the worst part of my job. I really don’t understand how people can do it. I remember the day it happened. I was the one who arrived at the house first; myself and Officer Howell. Mrs Petrelli was hysterical; curled up in a ball by the couch. Crying. Unable to speak. Her eldest son, Martin, trying to calm her down. Scottie, their four year old, watching Spongebob Squarepants on the television, unaware as to what was happening. Helena, their only daughter, was sitting in an armchair drinking tea, trying not to cry. Mr Petrelli directed us into the kitchen, explained to us what had happended. Stephen, the baby, only three months old, had been in his car seat. The car was parked by the side door. Christina (Mrs Petrelli) and Helena were bringing the shopping in from the car. Stephen was only left on his own for a minute. He was in their car, in their garden. Naturally, they thought he’d be safe there for a minute and understandably so, but when they came back out to the car, Stephen was gone. At first they thought Martin had taken him into the house, but Martin was in the back garden with Scottie, he hadn’t even realised they had come home. It was obvious Stephen had been snatched.
We spent four days searching for Stephen and his kidnapper. We remained hopeful, that whoever had taken him would take care of him and that when we arrested whatever bastard had done this, we could return Stephen safely to his family. Unfortunately, things don’t always work out that way. We found the body in a nearby forest. Howell spotted him first and after calling me over ran to vomit in a nearby bush. Howell’s new to the force and no matter what state we had found the body in, he would have been ill, but this would’ve brought even the bravest of cops (even forensics, who see this shit every day) to their knees. I didn’t throw up, but I cried. I cried for the Petrelli family, I cried for the dead boy who never even got his shot at life, and I cried for the son of a bitch that did it, because when I caught up with him, he’d wish he was dead too. Stephen had been chopped into six pieces, the legs, the arms, the head and the torso, and then he had been stuffed in a freezer bag and just left out in the middle of nowhere, to be food for the wildlife. Perhaps it would’ve been better if an animal had gotten to the body first, so that we had nothing to show the family. We didn’t want to show them, but they needed to see. Needed to be sure it was their baby. It was the hardest day I ever had on the job, watching those parents, see their own child, slaughtered and stone cold. I thought Mrs Petrelli was going to die of shock and I remember seeing the rage in Mr Petrelli’s eyes, and I’ll never forget what he said to me and Howell later that day, “Find the bastard that did this to my son and then bring him to me, so I can do to him what he did to my boy!”
As much as I would have liked to do what Petrelli asked, I knew I couldn’t. We arrested Freddie Andopolis a week later. Forensics had confirmed that it was his fingerprints on the body and his semen was also found on the boy. I was nearly sick when I heard that. I could’ve murdered Andopolis myself when I heard that he had raped the baby. What kind of a sick fuck would do such a thing, Howell had asked me. He had never met Andopolis before, but me and Andopolis, we had history. I was the one who arrested him when he raped Serena Bennett, but he got off on a technicality. I was ready to track him down and kill the fucker myself at the time, but he struck first. He hadn’t forgotten who had been his arresting officer. He went after my sister, Lindsay, but my partner at the time, Officer Grant managed to save her and Andopolis was put away. As far as I knew he was still rotting away in a prison cell, but apparently he had been released for good behaviour, about two weeks before Stephen went missing. Good behaviour my ass. It wasn’t me who had arrested Andopolis this time, there was too much history between us; they wouldn’t let me. But I was there when he was been questioned. I’ll never forget the sick, twisted grin on his face. His eyes, cold and dead, like any killer. He never answered the questions. Never even spoke. Not a single word between the time he was arrested and the day he was executed.
I was at the execution, as were the Petrelli family, except for Scottie of course, who was far too young for this sort of thing. I knew when Scottie grew up, he’d resent his parents for not bringing him to the execution of his brother’s murderer, but he’d eventually understand why he couldn’t be there. I thought Serena Bennett would have been at the execution too, Lindsay was, as was Howell and Grant and a lot of other people who had been involved in the crimes Andopolis had committed. I found out why Serena Bennett hadn’t been at the execution. Her brother arrived to see the execution. I barely recognised him; it had been so long since Serena’s case. He told me that Serena had committed suicide exactly a year after Andopolis had raped her and he had come to see the bastard fry, just like the rest of us had.
We all watched on as Andopolis was strapped to the chair, hoping that he would suffer as much pain as humanly possible before he died. Everyone in the room with me would have gladly pulled the lever which would send the electricity surging through Andopolis’ body, each of us having our own vendetta against this dirtbag. Before they placed the sack over his head and finally killed the fucker that had caused so many, so much pain. They asked him had he any last words and what he did then will haunt us all in our nightmares for the rest of our lives. Andopolis smiled, laughed maniacally and through the laughter muttered the six words, which were each like a knife to the heart of every person in that room. Andopolis looked at us through the window, looked at each of us, finally focusing on Christina Petrelli and said, “For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn.”
We spent four days searching for Stephen and his kidnapper. We remained hopeful, that whoever had taken him would take care of him and that when we arrested whatever bastard had done this, we could return Stephen safely to his family. Unfortunately, things don’t always work out that way. We found the body in a nearby forest. Howell spotted him first and after calling me over ran to vomit in a nearby bush. Howell’s new to the force and no matter what state we had found the body in, he would have been ill, but this would’ve brought even the bravest of cops (even forensics, who see this shit every day) to their knees. I didn’t throw up, but I cried. I cried for the Petrelli family, I cried for the dead boy who never even got his shot at life, and I cried for the son of a bitch that did it, because when I caught up with him, he’d wish he was dead too. Stephen had been chopped into six pieces, the legs, the arms, the head and the torso, and then he had been stuffed in a freezer bag and just left out in the middle of nowhere, to be food for the wildlife. Perhaps it would’ve been better if an animal had gotten to the body first, so that we had nothing to show the family. We didn’t want to show them, but they needed to see. Needed to be sure it was their baby. It was the hardest day I ever had on the job, watching those parents, see their own child, slaughtered and stone cold. I thought Mrs Petrelli was going to die of shock and I remember seeing the rage in Mr Petrelli’s eyes, and I’ll never forget what he said to me and Howell later that day, “Find the bastard that did this to my son and then bring him to me, so I can do to him what he did to my boy!”
As much as I would have liked to do what Petrelli asked, I knew I couldn’t. We arrested Freddie Andopolis a week later. Forensics had confirmed that it was his fingerprints on the body and his semen was also found on the boy. I was nearly sick when I heard that. I could’ve murdered Andopolis myself when I heard that he had raped the baby. What kind of a sick fuck would do such a thing, Howell had asked me. He had never met Andopolis before, but me and Andopolis, we had history. I was the one who arrested him when he raped Serena Bennett, but he got off on a technicality. I was ready to track him down and kill the fucker myself at the time, but he struck first. He hadn’t forgotten who had been his arresting officer. He went after my sister, Lindsay, but my partner at the time, Officer Grant managed to save her and Andopolis was put away. As far as I knew he was still rotting away in a prison cell, but apparently he had been released for good behaviour, about two weeks before Stephen went missing. Good behaviour my ass. It wasn’t me who had arrested Andopolis this time, there was too much history between us; they wouldn’t let me. But I was there when he was been questioned. I’ll never forget the sick, twisted grin on his face. His eyes, cold and dead, like any killer. He never answered the questions. Never even spoke. Not a single word between the time he was arrested and the day he was executed.
I was at the execution, as were the Petrelli family, except for Scottie of course, who was far too young for this sort of thing. I knew when Scottie grew up, he’d resent his parents for not bringing him to the execution of his brother’s murderer, but he’d eventually understand why he couldn’t be there. I thought Serena Bennett would have been at the execution too, Lindsay was, as was Howell and Grant and a lot of other people who had been involved in the crimes Andopolis had committed. I found out why Serena Bennett hadn’t been at the execution. Her brother arrived to see the execution. I barely recognised him; it had been so long since Serena’s case. He told me that Serena had committed suicide exactly a year after Andopolis had raped her and he had come to see the bastard fry, just like the rest of us had.
We all watched on as Andopolis was strapped to the chair, hoping that he would suffer as much pain as humanly possible before he died. Everyone in the room with me would have gladly pulled the lever which would send the electricity surging through Andopolis’ body, each of us having our own vendetta against this dirtbag. Before they placed the sack over his head and finally killed the fucker that had caused so many, so much pain. They asked him had he any last words and what he did then will haunt us all in our nightmares for the rest of our lives. Andopolis smiled, laughed maniacally and through the laughter muttered the six words, which were each like a knife to the heart of every person in that room. Andopolis looked at us through the window, looked at each of us, finally focusing on Christina Petrelli and said, “For Sale. Baby Shoes. Never Worn.”
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