The Right Choice

Trigger warnings: Sensitive content with mentions of Mental health, Physical violence, gore and abuse

That look on an adult’s face when I do something unpredictable, never gets old. Or less entertaining, or more heady. First, it’s this knee-jerk expression that’s a blend of morbid fascination and terror they’re helpless to hide. Then it’s followed right after by a braver veneer after they’ve reminded themselves that I’m just a kid and there’s no reason to be truly afraid of me because there’s no way a kid is truly messed up. Mischievous and misbehaving maybe, but not outright malicious. Momentary dread, then denial. That’s how most adults react to me. But not Ms Gordon.

Ah, Ms Gordon. I used to think unicorns were extinct or mythical or some such thing that didn't exist. Creatures with innate goodness and purity and all those things that get washed up somewhere between humans being able to talk and learning to really listen. But I guess at least one of them survived, or is distinctly real in the form of Ms Gordon, and is trying everyday to gently convince me that I’m not lost, that I don’t have to succumb to the black craving inside me that begs to be set free. She doesn’t look at me with terror or denial in her big doe eyes. She looks at me like she actually believes in me. She’s hopeful for me. 

Joke’s on her. 

Especially now, as I stand with my choice of show-and-tell object in front of the hapless seventh graders from my class. Kids are predictable. So, some screamed, some laughed, some made jokes, some made disgusted noises when I pulled out the dead bunny from my backpack. Hey, Ms Gordon said be creative and the best one gets an ice cream coupon. I like ice cream and I like to win. 

I launched into it with a bright smile, “This is a bunny. It’s browny-gray in color, although it’s starting to turn more brown since it became un-alive. It used to eat grass and dandelions and carrot tops. I think it must have been real dumb because it ran across the street and got run over by mama’s truck. But I got to bring it for show-and-tell so I’m happy.” I pause for effect, smile in place, while I take my utility knife out, sliding the knife extension out. Telling you, I’m meant for show business. “Now the inside of it.” I poke and lift one corner of its stomach. “The bones are so small and the intestine is interes--”

There’s more earnest screaming now, and Ms Gordon finally springs up from her chair behind the desk in one corner of the front of the classroom, rushing to where I’m standing. “I think that covers it plenty, Damien, thank you!”

I swear, there’s not an ounce of frustration or anger in her tone. She’s turning out to be the only adult I can’t faze. It’s annoying.

Then a boy throws up and the rest of the time is spent in Ms Gordon helping him, the janitor coming in to clean it, and Ms Gordon trying her very best to get the class to see the funny side of what could have been a really informative show-and-tell. Though she does ask me to wait after the bell rings and the class files out. Which is how I find myself standing across her desk while she’s perched on her chair again.

“Did your mama’s truck really run over the bunny, Damien?” She asks me calmly, almost…contemplatively. Like if I confessed that I killed it by stabbing it with my newly sharpened utility knife, she wouldn’t bat an eyelid. 

I lift my chin. “Why? What do you think happened, Ms Gordon?”

She tilts her head, unafraid, understanding and all kinds of patient. What is her deal?

“I think you wanted to kill it. But you chose not to.”

I snort. “Sorry to burst your bubble, teach. But the truck just got to the damn thing before I did.”

She narrows her eyes, studying me, not calling me on the language because she knows it’s a bait. Basically, she’s not buying what I’m selling. “This happened near your house?”

“Yeah?” I answer cautiously. It’s a trap, I’m sure of it. “Stupid-ass thing practically lived in our backyard.”

“So you had plenty of chances to use that knife of yours, then?”

Knew it was a trap. “Someone was always around.” I lie. 

“Uh huh.” She nods.

I hate that nod. That nod means she has me pegged. I did have plenty of chances. I chose not to kill it. Not out of pity, not because there were witnesses, but because I wanted to see if I could. Killing it was the easier choice. I wanted to see if I could make the harder one. “Whatever. You're gonna send me to the principal now?”

She shrugs, to my utter exasperation. “You didn’t break any rules. You weren’t disrespectful and you did the assignment.”

Huh? “I freaked everyone out. Disrupted the class. Brought a dead animal in here.”

She smiles indulgently. Smiles. “It’s seventh grade. Freak-outs and disruptions are pretty much standard. And the animal was already dead. Nothing anyone could do about it.”

Damn it--what does a 12-year old have to do to get into trouble with her? “Stop doing…this thing.” I hiss ineffectually at her.

“What thing, Damien?”

“This thing where you pretend that I’m not a sociopath. That you don’t see the pitch darkness inside me. That it’s not just a matter of time before I actually kill a living thing. Where you act like you think I will always make the right choice even when all I want to do is be so very bad.”

“You will. You will always make the right choice.”

“I won’t!” I yell.

“You will.”

Fury simmers, slow and steady, but scorching. I pin her with an unblinking glare. “Tell you what, teach. I’m going to do it today.”

“Do what?” She coolly asks.

“I’m going to kill someone. Before midnight. Today.”

There’s a flash of something satisfying in her eyes. But it lasts for a short second before confidence and conviction are back like armor on her face. “Okay.”

What do you know--maybe it’s going to be her. “Did you hear me? I said--”

“I heard you, Damien. And I told you what I think. So unless you need something from me, you’re free to go home.”

My heart hammers. How dare she not take me seriously? How dare she club me with other pathetic, ordinary human beings who spend their lives afraid, doing the correct thing?

I turn on my heel, head spinning, rage building, hands itching. Itching to prove her wrong. Itching to set the damn beast free, once and for all.

I bike home, pedaling like there’s a hellhound chasing me. There are more bunnies. Squirrels. Stray cats. I really want to see the inside of a cat. I’d like to see Ms Gordon talk about right choices when I gut open a cat in front of her.

Screaming and other loud noises greet me the moment I walk inside the door to my house. 

“I should never have married you, dumb cow!” My father hollers, slurring. “Half a brain and frigid in the sack.” The sound of things being thrown flows in from the kitchen area. 

Mom mumbles something through heavy sobs but I can’t make it out.

“Shut up and get me a damn beer!” Dad bellows.

There are shuffling footsteps, followed by the fridge opening, then mom saying something in a cowering voice.

“Goddammit!” Dad shouts. Then rushes out to where I’m standing, and walks right past me to the foyer closet. He opens it angrily and fishes out…my baseball bat.

A surge of adrenaline, electricity flows through me. I usually sit these fights and beatings out. I don’t respect anyone who doesn’t stand up for themselves. If this is the way mom has to learn, then this is the way she has to learn. But I have a challenge to fulfill. One way or another, I’m getting blood on my hands today. What better way than this? They’ll send me to prison. Ms Gordon will come to see me and then we’ll see about right choices and all. I’ve always found the thought of prison appealing, almost comforting. Besides, dad is starting to grate on my nerves. I mean, come on man, at least try to miss her face so she doesn’t have to explain her bruises to the neighbors. What a moron.

The moron that’s stomping off with a poised bat into the kitchen.

I grab my trusted knife out of my pocket and call after him, “Hey dad?”

“Not now, boy.” He growls without halting.

For crying out loud. I hurtle after him, seizing the sleeve of his shirt and pulling with all my 110-pound might. He stumbles back in confusion, veins popping on his neck and temple. Oh, this is going to be good.

“What are you--”

He never finishes it.

But I finish him. First with the knife in his gut until his blood is spilling all over, then pummeling him over and over with my fists until my knuckles are bloodied. 

When he stops moving, I check for his breath. There is none.

Then I sit there and wait.

Everything happens at the speed of light after that. 

Sirens, cops, cuffs, booking me, taking me to prison.

They assign me a public defender who’s surprisingly good at his job. I had no idea the criminal and judicial systems were so efficient. He puts up a self-defense due to domestic violence defense. 

The judge is sympathetic when he sees mom, so he only gives me a few years. Whatever. Few, ten, doesn’t matter.

When the uniformed officer is leading me away from the court back to prison, I see her in one of the back benches. The trial has been a closed one, so nobody outside immediate family members were allowed. I was going to ask my lawyer to set up a meeting. Now, I don’t have to.

“Can I talk for a minute with him?” She asks the officer who has his hand on my shoulder. “I’m his school teacher.”

“Make it quick.” He says, disinterestedly.

I smile at her maniacally. “Wanna hear a secret, teach? It wasn’t self-defense. Or even defense of my mom. Just wanted to kill the bastard. I’ve wanted to do it for a really long time.”

She doesn’t look rattled. Why doesn’t she look rattled? 

“But you didn’t.” She says in that calm voice I detest with every fiber of my being. “You did it the day you issued me that promise.”

“So?”

“Know what I think, Damien?” She asks me, with her resting peaceful face.

“What?” I ask carefully.

“I think you’ve wanted to kill something for a while. But you couldn’t make that choice. Not until you had the right reason to.”

I frown, swallowing. “I…what?”

“You lived with him. It likely wasn’t the first time he hit your mom. But you never chose to hit him back.”

I give her a smug look. “Because I don’t care about either of them. I just wanted to kill.”

“You could’ve sat this fight out too, Damien. You could’ve found another farm animal. You didn’t.” She pauses. “You could’ve run after killing him. You didn’t. You waited for the police.”

My gut is sinking, I don’t even know why. “So? I wanted to go to prison.”

“I know. Because there are less innocent things to kill there. No rabbits or squirrels.” 

I stare at her. “Wh-what?”

“Not killing was never the right choice for you, Damien. It was choosing when, who and where to kill.” There’s that pause again. She could be in show business too. “You made the right choice. I knew you would.”

Panic courses through me. “You’re…wrong.”

“Time.” Grumpy officer appears out of nowhere.

Ms Gordon gives me a soft smile. “I’d say take care of yourself, but we both know you’re already very good at that.” 

Then she turns and walks away, out of the courtroom.

Looks like the joke’s on me, after all.