“Slit their fucking throats!”
The words still echoed in my mind, the violent urges Al so desperately
wanted performed by my own hand. In fact, it was these urges which propelled me
even to this day. I don’t mean these harsh actions drive my person, mind you,
they don’t control who I am, but rather they cause me to live a life of
normalcy. A man of eight years over twenty, I would’ve been a completely
different creature had I not taken the straight razor to the throats of my
parents. In all honesty, I may have been worse than the Ripper without the
stain upon my soul being cleansed at age eight. But even considering this, I
know now I still should’ve slashed that monkey to pieces instead of my dear,
sweet parents. Maybe in doing so I would’ve only known a life of dull normalcy,
not needing to strive for it in the first place… But I’m getting ahead of
myself. The story didn’t start with the death of my loved ones. No, it all
began with a simple gift.
THEN – Fall, 1888: London
“It’s a Macaque! Isn’t he simply radiant?” Mother’s tone was cheerful. I
always hated how excitable she sounded. “Your father and I purchased him from a
foreigner while on our trip to India!” Little did Mother realize she would’ve
been the foreign one in another country.
I looked on at this animal, this gift.
Its fur was a pale brown, a mixture of ash and dirt. The fangs it bore
resembled that of a monster, eager to sink into the flesh of an unsuspecting
victim. Its hands, although small, gripped the bars of its cage and looked as
if they were ready to pull them apart with unnatural strength for such a tiny
creature., Is this really what Mother disturbed my
studies for? Wasn’t she aware I had other things to attend to, like the little
bird I was working on in my room? A whiff of dung and refuse rose from the
monkey, stirring my thoughts. “He
smells.”
Mother’s face sank, as if taken aback, yet she continued on. “Nonsense,
my love. He’s merely a victim of displacement. You’d be rather odd smelling to
other people I’m sure, if you were placed in their natural habitat after
spending your whole life somewhere else.” Her theories always came out rather
dim.
“Take him back. I don’t want him.”
Father finally entered the conversation with his steel-trap logic. “We
can’t take him back, Pippin. It’s quite a long journey for the return of one
simple monkey.”
“I fail to see how I should be concerned with that.” Yes, I’m aware I
was a child of a bratty nature. However, you’ll agree with my complaints soon
enough. “Get one of the jaundy boys down by the dock to do it. They’d be more
than willing to take on such a task for some pocket money. And if not, roughen
them up a bit.”
The monkey rattled in its confines, as if to signify its resistance in
departing upon another journey. If only my parents hadn’t been so strong-willed
about this damned beast, they might still have their jugulars intact.
“Pippin! Such things are not nice to say about the Asian fellows by the
dock! They’re just as hardworking as the Irish, if not more! At least we know
they won’t steal the clothes from your back while you’re not looking!” Mother
wasn’t a fine example of equality, no matter how much she lectured me on my
thoughts of the Asians.
“We’re not discussing the jaundies any longer! The monkey is a gift from
our travels and you will tend to him as if he were your sibling. Do you understand?” Father piggybacked Mother’s complaint
with his usual cavalier attitude, not noticing the twinge in Mother’s eye at
the mention of “sibling”. Of course, it’s here I feel inclined to inform you my
parents only went on this trek across the globe to the likes of Sudan, Istanbul,
or Constantinople for you westerners, and India to relieve their heavy minds of
Mother’s great loss. Yes, I was to be an older sibling, but Fate would have it
otherwise. Now I was left with a feces-throwing animal as a replacement.
Continuing...
“The estate will be a complete mess when you let loose that thing. Do not even begin to fathom I
will clean up after its disasters.” Again, I’m quite aware of how spoiled and
entitled I came off as. But I did have an extensive vocabulary for my age.
Both of my parents were completely annoyed at this lack of interest in
their gift, it was blatant when they both shouted “Enough!” Father was the
first to speak after their unified dismissal. “You will tend to the animal, you
will play with the animal, you will love
the animal. Am I understood?”
What was I to do? Yes, my will still screamed to beat against theirs,
but I was a mere child. Arguing with a parent while in your formative years is
nothing more than a losing battle from the start. Now convinced they had won
the debate, Mother and Father opened the door to the monkey’s entrapment. The
little creature hastily fled from the box, running up the stairs of the grand
hall and down one of the many pathways the manner possessed. It was here I
really noticed how my living quarters looked. Each entry was guarded by dual
marbled statues imported from Greece. The curtains were a silk rarity from the
upper regions of Asia. The walls, although a stale brown, were accented with
nothing short of one of a kind paintings from around the world, some of which
were accidently disfigured without a
culprit to blame. This was more of a museum than a place to live, but I made
due with the west wing of the house as my playground. In fact, it was that area
of the house I had just heard a crashing sound come from. If only I hadn’t gone to investigate…
I raced into my bedroom, a place of white walls and dark drapes. It was
here I saw the monkey perched atop my cabinet of toys, throwing things about
like a regular beast of nature. However, he wasn’t destroying my playthings in
an animalistic fashion, but rather as an enraged human throwing a fit. This was
only the first of many oddities to come.
“What the hell are you looking at, boy?”
Yes, the monkey spoke to me. And even further, my mouth hung open like
that of a person suffering a mental ailment. In fact, the monkey even felt
inclined to point that out.
“Are you stupid, or just plain retarded?” The mouth for this creature
pierced the very fabric of reality for me. It accentuated itself, moving just
like a man’s, lips and all. Yet it was creature-like, something you’d envision
in one of Poe’s stories. The monkey
hurled another of my belongings across the room, snapping my attention back to
the entire situation. A macaque with the gift of a cursed tongue terrorized my
housing while I stood by in awe.
“Close
your fucking mouth, you’re letting a draft in.” He then jumped from the cabinet
to the nearby window, trying to pry it open. “Your parents don’t trust you,
they have to nail down the damn windows so you can’t get out?”
My gaze remained unflinching, unsure of what I was seeing. After a few
moments I was finally able to mutter out “What are you?” I’m quite aware I
seemed daft at this point in time.
This stopped the monkey in his tracks, turning his full attention to me.
“Ah, it speaks. Here I thought I was the only one with the cognitive capacity
to actually say something useful. After all, you didn’t say much more than jack
shit when talking to your parents. And let’s get something straight, I’m not a what, I’m a who.”
“Alright, who are you?” Yes,
still daft.
“Name’s Al, and this isn’t who I really am. I was actually an American-“
“You came from America? But Mother and Father said they bought you in
India.”
Al became enraged. “Will you let me finish, you little shit? I was
getting to that. I’m from America, but I was on holiday in India. I came across
some sort of temptress and now I’m a fucking monkey. Does that answer all of
your asinine questions?”
The only thing I could think was “No”, but I hardly wanted to provoke Al
any more than he already seemed to be. After a few more moments of his bumbling
to get out and my bumbling around a talking monkey, we sat down and spoke at
great length. The man-ape went on about his journeys across the world, about
how he always preferred New York to anywhere else. He said there was a
sophisticated aggression in New York and I must really plan a trip if I intend
to keep my head squarely up my rectum. Being only eight, I couldn’t tell if
that was a compliment or insult. I see now it was the latter.
We sat on the floor and continued our conversation for awhile, until Al
looked under my bed and saw the little bird I had been tending to. He slid it
out from its concealment and I immediately tried to stop him, “No, don’t touch
that!” It was too late, the monkey had opened Pandora’s Box.
“What the fuck is this? Are you one of those sick animal killers? Try
that shit with me and I’ll kill you!” Al was very displeased with finding my
test subject.
It was an odd feeling, but I felt like I could tell Al my intentions. He
was already critical towards me, and we had only known each other for less than
an hour, but what more could he do to belittle my character?
“That was Sam. He was a friend
of mine. That was until I cut off his wings with a straight razor. He struggled
at first, attempting to flap his detached parts. All he achieved was bleeding
out faster. I sliced into his abdomen as he died. It housed such small,
insignificant organs, yet I won’t know what pain the bird felt as I cut each
one with my blade. I wanted it to suffer, and I wanted it to know I was in
control.”
“Darling,
it’s time for your medication.” Mother called from somewhere near the kitchen. I remember
shaking my head in shame, not just at Mother interrupting my surgical
monologue, but at killing the bird before it knew the pleasure I had in store
for it.
“You’re one twisted little fuck. I bet your parents have you on all
sorts of meds. Serves you right too, slicing up a bird like that. Don’t you
know you should aim your sights on something that can scream?” Al had a very interesting way of adding suggestion. But he did have a point. I sat in my room, my sanctuary
of white and gory exploration, yet never examined the idea of hearing a person
writhe in agony.
“Are you insinuating I tackle something of a human nature? Move on from petty birds and small field mice? Is
that what you’re-“
Mother cut me off. “Pippin, did you hear me? It’s time for your
medication.”
I rose to my feet and heard Al chuckle. “Boy, I’d shove that bottle down
her throat and make her choke on those pills if I were you.” I had no response,
or shall I say, what should I have responded with? I merely dusted myself off
and began my trip down to the kitchen. I could hear Al yelling at me as I
exited though, “Kill the bitch! Kill the bitch! Kill the bitch! Oh, and don’t
forget about your father!”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, a talking monkey wanted me to
kill my parents. And each point around this time of day, the time I took my
medication, Al’s aggression towards Mother and Father became more obvious. I’d
walk along the dark halls, judgmental eyes staring at me from the paintings I’d
pass, with words like “stab, shoot, murder, kill” pounding through my skull
like a bad headache. Finally I stopped taking the medication to get a reprieve
from Al’s verbal wrath. Granted, Mother and Father weren’t too keen on my
disobedience initially, but they gave up the struggle over time. Maybe a person in their formative years can win an argument with their older
counterparts. Either way, my small victory only spurred the tiny mockery of a
man to become more angered.
“Slit their fucking throats!”
“Why are you doing this? Mother and Father may be a burden at times, but
that’s no reason to kill them.” Truly, I had no desire to kill my parents… Yet.
“Why can’t we find a vagrant or traveling merchant to test my curiosities on?”
The creature ignored my inquiry and carried on his mental torment, “Slit
their fucking throats! Do it! Do it now, you little shit!” He continued with
his demands, instructing me to grab the straight razor I’d use for my studies
with the animals. I’d only attempted to use it on Al once since his residency,
but withdrew the notion at the final moment for fear of his wrath. “Put that thing to their necks and slice!”
I don’t think there was a turning point, some toggle in my mind that
switched on. No, it was more like sleepwalking. I staggered down the hallways
in my slumber attire, no longer concerned with the art glaring at me for my
thoughts. Oddly enough, each picture I walked by appeared different now, as if
encouraging me to carry out Al’s demands. These new emotions from the artwork
could be contributed to my mental state at the time, yet I don’t feel the
paintings have changed their mind over the years. They wanted me to do it, just
as Al did.
The door creaked ever so slightly as I opened the entrance to Mother and
Father’s room. There they were, wrapped up like little children in their bed of
oak and fancy. I had only been in their room once, but it never looked like
this. Shadows danced on the jeweled walls like imps from Hell, the sculptures
and statues took on sharp points, as if growing horns. The once ordinary room
now lodged all of the monstrosities one would see in a fevered trance, or
property of Satan. These things would not detour me though, for my resolve was
clear: appease Al so he’d let me have peace.
Father didn’t struggle too much if I recall correctly. I mounted his
chest and he awoke with the thought I needed something. He started to call down
to one of the servants, but failed to make anything audible once his vocal
cords were severed. Blood began pouring from the wound instantly, soaking his
long johns and bedding alike. The sudden wetness stirred Mother from her
slumber, causing me to leap at her with a terrible force I never knew I
possessed. We tumbled from the bed, myself somehow underneath her. Disregarding
my position, I thrust my arm upward, stabbing part of the blade into Mother’s
neck. She loosed a scream, but quickly stopped herself. I can only assume the
action inflicted more pain than she was accustomed. The now dying woman reached
up to remove the sharp object, but only succeeded with slicing her fingers due
to her franticness. Her hands withdrew wildly, leaving me to drag the razor
through her flesh, carving an orifice of pain and gore into her person. The job
took several moments, and even after she bled out her body trembled. I then
dropped the razor and went back to my chambers. Even now I’m quite confused
with how I committed such an atrocity, yet somehow managed to spare myself even
a single drop of blood dampening my garments.
Returning to my room, I climbed into my bed. I knew I was now free of
Al’s torment, his yearnings. My eyes began to sink, I was drifting between this
world and the one of rest. It was in my final moment of consciousness I noticed
the window to my room was pried open and the talking monkey was nowhere to be
found. I had gained control over everything, just as I wanted with Sam.
NOW – Spring, 1908: New York
There you have it. I killed my parents because an animal, no a man,
instructed me to do so. The worst part isn’t my ill-deed, or even that the
monkey disappeared once I satiated his hunger for death, but that instead
Father was labeled the killer. Yes, the police ruled it both a murder and a
suicide. With that, I was passed around from servant to servant until I came of
age, thus inheriting the family estate. I live there now, with my family.
There’s the Wife, the Son, and the younger Daughter. We even have the Dog. I
took on a profession at the local pressing and have lived as normal a life as I
could given the circumstances. It was a struggle at times, but I made due with
the situation I created. It was everything until now which spurred on this
holiday with the family. They longed for an escape, and since childhood I had a
desire to go to New York. It turns out visiting the local zoo wasn’t such a
good idea though…
“Well look what the cat dragged in. Long time, no see, my friend.” Al’s
familiar voice sounded from a nearby cage. I turned my attention to the monkey,
never expecting to find him here, or anywhere for that matter. “It’s a nice
family you have there. You know what you should do? Slit their fucking
throats!” Suddenly I felt the small handle of a straight razor in my grasp. I
looked down and saw the Daughter holding my hand.
“I like that monkey, daddy.
Can we keep him?”
Al laughed hysterically as I
stared at the Daughter. My head began to pound as it did when I was a child,
“stab, shoot, murder, kill”, the beat to my internal drum…
“Yes, sweetheart. We’ll go
ask the zookeeper right now if we can buy him.”
