Disturbia: Chapter 1(The Beginning)

Ok, hmmm where should I start and what should I call you? Start at the beginning and just call me Gary. Ok Gary, can I lie down then? Oh yes please, take any position you are comfortable with, I do not mind. However, before we go far, state your name and surname for the record. Ok my name is Corey Adams.  Can I start now Gary? Yah sure, and take your time on this.

Hmmm ok. Wow, I do not know where to start. I lost the beginning in the middle of the story. The end was so evident because it almost consumed me into an eternal pit. It is the last memory I have of a life that almost went wrong. Speaking is such a burden, the memory of the weight of the hurt and pain is so real that it makes my eyes heavy with tears. My eyes used to burn when the smell of blood touched my mind. I am glad I can breathe now, I do not remember the last time, the last time, the last! Ok Corey you do not have to rush things, I can see you are opening up for the first time. Take it easy Corey! Ok Gary, I want to tell you this, really I do. Ok, as I was saying, I do not remember the last time I had the peace as I have now. It hurt to be the person I was, to be so vile and monstrous. Look out of that window Gary. All you see is grass, trees, people and buildings. You see nature; you see creation. Imagine if what you are seeing was your story. Imagine if what you are seeing now is what almost consumed you. Imagine if it spit out its most horrible plague upon your life and there was no cure in sight. How would you feel? I do not know Corey, can you answer that question for me? I will gladly answer it Gary.

You would feel void inside. You would feel alone, distant and hurt. A lingering darkness would consume every fibre of your existence until you have lost yourself in hatred, vanity and mental disorder. You would no longer know who you are. All you would know is that you do not know who you are. You would get into a place where your own voice is your everlasting curse and the sight of your own face is like looking at the flesh of a rotting corpse. All the life would be sucked out of you and you would become an empty vessel. No life would exist in you! All that would be there to see is hatred, anger, lust, schizophrenia, twisted desire and lack of affection. Insecurity would become your best friend; vengeance would become the only shoulder capable of bearing the weight of your voidness. You would want to end it all; you would want to give back that which you have been given. You would want to show the fruits of the seeds that would have been sown into your life. Your mind would feel like a complex jigsaw puzzle while your heart would feel like it is being stabbed by a razor sharp dagger. No peace would exist in you, none at all! You would be all by yourself, no one would understand. No one would choose to understand but most would choose to judge. You would lose yourself Gary and the chance of coming back would seem so bleak that the darkest star seems to be the brightest sun in your life.


Have you ever looked death in the eye Gary? No, I have not Corey but I take it you have! Yes, I have Gary.  What a sight she is! She is such a seductress. Her beauty, her covetous body, her tongue! When she kisses your cheek, your body burns and when you feel her body, you become so trapped in her softness and warmth that you will never notice her deception. When she kisses you on your mouth and delivers the kiss of death you will do whatever she says, you will kill for her. Your own silent mistress, such a liar! Everything out there has the ability to destroy you if you allow it to.  Only if you allow it to!


My mother was a kind but firm lady, more like the first lady of an Italian mafia. My father was a laid back, extremely silent and contemplative human being. One would think he is a typical American non-socialite. I came along last in a family of four. Well three actually. The first-born died when she was two months old. At times, I wonder what she looked like. She must have loved candy because I do. I joined the rest of the clan in 1987. Three years later, we moved and settled in the house we live in now, the house I like to call the “funeral parlour” because of its shear size. At the age of three, you do not get to see and understand much. The day you discover what sugar tastes like is like the day you meet the love of your life. However, the little you see sticks in your mind like the stench of a skunk does in your nose.  My father was, well a father! He went out in the morning and came back home in the evening after a pit stop at the bar. Hmmm, I am sure he did more pit stops than Michael Schumacher did in his entire racing career, but anyway. I remember seeing him walking through the front door. The first thing he would do was to shout for my mommy and then he would try to kiss her good evening but then mommy would get all shy because all the kids are around. God knows what happened when all the kids were asleep! My father seemed to be such a gentleman and such an educated character. However, the day I really saw my father was the day I saw him angry. What a vision! His voice grew loud, his eyes popped out and his hand was poised to strike. The whole house quaked at the ascending magnitude of his anger. Tears filled the face of my siblings and I while my mother looked at us with love as she could only try to calm him down. It felt as if being a kid was so wrong, there was no room for error and childhood nonsense. Leaving the house just to go to school was like going to heaven on a chariot of fire. No care in sight, just other kids. When the time to go home came, the harsh reality of fear would settle in. Was he going to be happy today, was he going to be angry, was he going to bring me chocolate or he would be holding his belt? Such suspense is poisonous to the mind of a child. The sight that I would welcome any day was the sight of my mommy. Oh my mommy, such a lady. We would be waiting to ambush her at the gate. The theory was to ambush her, pillage all the candy we could from her handbag before she caught us. There being three kids, working as a unit would help to feed the multitude. One would run and give mommy a huge bear hug, while the other two took the handbag and searched it. Worked like a charm. Well until she learnt to hide her handbag. At times, I had to criticize her intelligence!

Whenever I heard my father at the gate, I would rush into my blankets and try to get to dreamland as fast as I could. I wanted to see the best in my father but it was so hard. He was never there; he was at work, at the bar or at home but never there. He was in a distant world of his own where his mother and his siblings were all that ever concerned him. At times, I would wonder if my siblings and I were really his children. I grew up knowing that my mother was my mommy and daddy at the same time. If I ever wanted something, I would ask my mom and if she could not give it to me then I had to go and get it myself. It takes a moment of overactive hormones to become a father but it takes a heart to be a daddy. That heart my father lacked. I remember one time I was performing badly in first grade. My teacher spoke to my mom about it and my mom then told my father. My father came home fuming with the stench of alcohol in his breath. He grabbed a fan belt from the car and lashed me repeatedly until I was chocking my tears. I ran into my room and he followed me. I was trying to get into my blankets, for some strange reason I thought they would be a safe refuge. He caught me by my feet, lifted me upside down, and walked back to the lounge with me hanging in his hands. All this time he was still lashing me. He put me down after mommy said it was enough. I ran back to my room and buried myself in my bed hoping the tears would go away. Mommy followed and tried to comfort me but I did not want to talk. My body was aching; my back was so alive with pain that it felt as if it had the pounding rhythm of my heart. I cried until I could only cry in my heart. I dosed off and woke up the following day. I woke up only to realize that the pain had only begun. The belt had scarred my body so much that I could not sit anymore. Trying to sit was like trying to swallow a substance on fire. I could not sit, it hurt so much. My body hurt, for what, for what?


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