Laugh

A note for the reader:

Objectivity is all but lost amongst those in our modern society. Situations these days are viewed only through the myopic lens of sympathy; people must always find a “victim,” when, in reality, the victim is just as much to blame as the perpetrator (oftentimes even more). With this at the forefront of our minds, I plead, dear reader, that this story is viewed only through the often disregarded lens of objectivity.

This wonderful little narrative begins on a Saturday in early February: a day considerably less wonderful. Now, it wasn't the day’s weather that I despised. As a proud man of logic, I find having preference over the uncontrollable to be a disgusting waste of time. No, only what can be changed can permeate my soul with ire. Such ire comes from that which is malleable but not controlled; the most revolting example of which is most certainly children. Children, I have found, are so easily controlled that it would seem almost impossible that any child would act out of line. 

For months I had been attempting to decipher why children, the most easily influenced of all sentient beings, were allowed to have such freedom, and on this Saturday in early February I had finally found my answer: fear. Control comes from fear does it not? The fear of punishment, the fear of shame. Without the natural desire to avoid such feelings, anarchy would reign. The guardians of these children were, for some strange reason, avoiding the use of the abject terror of seniority to better control their children. It seemed that a fear of invoking fear is what forced true obedience to remain an unachievable dream.

I vowed to be different; I would raise children in a household of fear. Every noise that escaped my child’s lips would be met with swift retribution. I no longer had a wife, but she did provide me with a child before our divorce. This circumstance was in no way my own doing, dear reader. Women could never truly understand my intelligence. They all view their world through the rose colored keyhole of naivety; what would a woman know about disciplining a child anyway? No, I was the only one who understood what it took to raise a child.

But I digress. Back to my lovely little tale: what I dreaded about that day was the terrible fact that it was the weekend, and I was gifted with the great joy of watching over my wonderful child. Now, I am obviously being facetious dear reader. I despised my child; my 8-year-old Maria with mangy brown hair that seemed to encapsulate her head and shoulders. Her pale, sickly complexion was made even more disturbing by her missing deciduous teeth. She was an awful looking little girl, and this leads me to believe that my wife had an affair during our marriage. There is no way that my perfectly Aryan appearance could have produced such disgusting offspring. 

Maria was her name; a name shared by her and her mother, a woman whom I hated with every fiber of my being. She destroyed my soul under the guise of love. She said she loved me. She said she needed me. She even said she wanted to marry me! But that horrid, lying wretch left me because of my “temper.” How am I to remain calm when a simple woman decides to argue with me? I know I have stated that the victim can sometimes be to blame in situations such as this, but I, the victim, did absolutely nothing wrong. She deserved to be beat. She deserved my verbal lashings. She deserved it all! I WAS THE KING OF THE HOUSE! SHE WAS MINE AND MINE ALONE! EVERYTHING SHE HAD WAS MINE!

I apologize, dear reader. I sometimes get carried away when reminiscing upon my failed romance. 

After I had fetched Maria from her mother’s house and brought her to my apartment, I told her the rules as I always did. Children are rather fatuous and they can only remember directions for a short period of time, so I must repeat the directions to her every week. The rules were as follows:

No running in the apartment

No using the TV

No eating unless permission is given

No laughter is allowed

No crying is allowed

Do not speak unless spoken to

See? These are the simplest rules a household could ever maintain, but my daughter is unable to understand the simplest of rules. As per my aforementioned statement, you can trust that every decibel uttered from my daughter’s lips was an offense punishable by the sting of a leather belt. For hours I would discipline her; her screams only perpetuated my anger, and I would only stop once the entirety of her backside was red. These punishments would enervate me physically, but the euphoria I experienced from punishing a child, shaping them to my will, was pure ecstasy. This feeling was evanescent, but my child was uncouth enough so that these beatings were commonplace in my household. 

This Saturday was not unlike most; I had already beat the girl twice that morning, and while she was cowering in the bathroom I was reading in my lounge chair in my living room. Can’t you just imagine it, dear reader? Me sitting in my freshly cleaned living room with a hardback copy of American Psycho in my hands. The soft glow of a reading light illuminating the worn pages of the book I've read a dozen times over. My diffident, but imposing, stature clearly evident by my perfect posture and my stern complexion. 

I was in this state of tranquility when my pathetic little daughter emerged from her hiding place to interrupt me. I smiled at her and asked if she was OK. I did not really care about the answer; I simply wanted to play havoc with her mind. It was such a fun game! I would destroy her psyche as well as her physical being. 

She answered with her toothless smile.

“I am okay, father.” 

Her feckless attempt to belie the pain she felt made me laugh. What a stupid bitch she was! Unfortunately, in my fit of hysterical laughter I knocked over the reading light at my side and it fell into my lap, knocking the book out of my hands and onto the floor. That’s when I heard it. A short “sniff.“ I stood up and glared at that little 8-year-old girl and her missing teeth. 

“What was that?” I asked. “What was that sound! WHAT WAS THAT SOUND. YOU PATHETIC BRAT? DID YOU JUST LAUGH AT ME?!!”

“N-no, sir.”

  Dear reader, we are now at the point in the story in which I must ask again that you remain objective. This little girl had rules to follow, and she broke them. More than that, she disrespected me. I would not have it. No, not again. Especially from a contemptible little 8-year-old girl. 

I stared into her manure colored eyes as I began to approach her, but the eye contact was broken by yet another demeaning mishap; I stepped on my book. I looked down at my hardback copy of American Psycho in sheer bewilderment. She did this. She ruined the book! This 8-year-old girl would torment me no longer. I took two steps and slapped her across the face. She immediately fell to the floor and screamed. No. It wasn't a scream…she…she was laughing at me! SHE DARED LAUGH AT ME AGAIN! I picked her up by her hair and tossed her toward the lounge chair. She dared run away, but I immediately put a halt to her attempt to enfranchise herself. I grabbed her by the foot, and pulled her toward me. I clamped my hand around her neck and began to rip out her disgusting hair. I saw her scalp begin to bleed as I tore her hair out in massive chunks, yet she still laughed. It was a shrieking laugh: high pitched screaming combined with desperate pleas to halt my actions. Never before had her laughter angered me so, but this feeling, this release of pent up rage, it was near orgasmic. After all but a few strands of blood stained hair remained on her head, I dragged the deplorable 8-year-old girl into the kitchen where I grabbed a step stool. I placed the stool in the corner of my lazy susan so that it would not move. I grabbed my little brat and positioned her head so that it seemed she was attempting to eat the stool at its corner. This was it, dear reader. I would finally be rid of this abhorrent piece of shit. She made a pathetic attempt to flee, but she was too weak to move very far. I repositioned her and put my foot on the back of her head. I began to slowly apply pressure, but her laughter grew even louder; it was deafening now. I began to kick her head. Now, I did not begin to kick her very hard, dear reader, just enough to break the few front teeth that she had left. Still she laughed, and still my anger grew. It would be over soon, but I still wanted to relish every second of her punishment. When I got my way with her she would no longer be laughing. I stomped upon the back of her head, and I heard the crunch of her jaw breaking beneath my foot. As her jaw broke, the little girl squealed in a fit of laughter. I picked her up with one hand and grabbed her mangled jaw with the other, and I began to pull at her jaw in hopes the searing pain would cease her laughter:“STOP LAUGHING YOU BITCH. YOU SHOULD BE IN PAIN. WHY ARE YOU STILL LAUGHING?” 

She screamed as I began to pull on her jaw. I would no longer be forced to endure that horrid smile, dear reader. I tore off a large piece of her jaw. It was rather easy for someone as masculine as me, and, luckily, her jagged, shattered jaw had already begun to sever sections of her jaw from her face. 

Blood was everywhere at this point; it seemed to boil out of her mouth as her screams ejected the fluid from her lungs. This little girl would die beneath my feet like the pathetic bitch she was. I threw her down and stomped upon her head once more. Finally, after enduring this little 8-year-old’s perpetual laughter, I felt it. I felt the squish of a child’s skull beneath my feet. Finally…silence. 

I understand that it is quite horrible how the girl died. Nonetheless, it was certainly deserved. She wronged me, dear reader. She wronged me, and I punished her like any other parent would. 

I was the epitome of quiet intelligence and acumen, but now I sit here rotting in this prison. Yes, dear reader, I am in prison for my righteousness. I was punished for parenting a child. I now hope you see that it was not me but her who was in the wrong. It was her. I did nothing wrong. Nothing.