H. A. Carter

3 Years Later

By Kimberly Fuller

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Copyright © 2012 by Kimberly Fuller

All rights reserved. Published by Kimberly
Fuller

First Edition, August 2012

Smashwords Edition

For my children...may you never feel the
agony of losing your humanity,

and always value the worth of your life.

3 Years Later

By Kimberly Fuller

They say I am a killer.

A monster. A psycho. A freak. The endless
list goes on and on.

But sometimes what They say isn't always the
truth.

The truth is, They were the ones who
tormented me, bullied me, laughed at me, and ridiculed me.

They murdered my soul.

That's why I did what I did, and that's why
my mother cries.

I picture my mother sitting silently weeping
every night at the awful things I had done. I picture her staring
longingly at crumpled old photographs of me, wishing to turn back
the hands of time and fix what went wrong as though that would
solve all of her sadness. I wish she understood that she wasn't the
one who went wrong. None of this was ever her fault. She did the
best she could. I made my own choices, good or bad as they
were.

Oh, my poor sweet mother. I do my best to
speak to her when I am allowed, but I would love to see her smile
again. She's sure aged a great deal since that tragic day. The
worry lines creeping across her once polished cheek, the skin now
weathered with quiet agony. Even her raven hair has begun to lose
its confident luster, tucked away in a quick, ill-forgotten
ponytail, exposing the fresh wrinkles in the corners of her eyes.
Nothing like the still semi-youthful looking woman who showed up in
front of the stone church with a fearless demeanor on the outside,
but screaming in unfathomable torture on the inside. She pushed
away her hurt and rose from her painful ashes like an unbreakable
phoenix as she stepped in front of the firing range of angry
parents and faculty at their funeral just a few years past. That
single act of valor on my mother's part both fills me with great
pride and excruciating sadness. Had the tables been turned, could I
have been as brave as she? Would I rise above the pain, or flee
like a coward to swim in my torment? After all these years, I'm
still not sure if I could have done what she did. All these
years.

I can't believe it's been nearly three years
now. I seem to have forgotten all sense of time Here, which is
quite easily done. Here, just yesterday I was walking to school.
Just yesterday I was opening that heavy door of fate. Just
yesterday I was...

Yes, time is all but forgotten Here, but
memories, memories like those are in great abundance.

Here you're not allowed to forget. They won't
let you. Definitely not Here.

Their burial still remains fresh in the
confines of my mind. The day black and cold, both outside and in my
heart. The air was thick with sorrow and heavy with loss. The whole
town it seemed had come to grieve for the fallen ones. They had
buried four of the five that day. Four together, one outcast,
shunned from acceptance even after death. To top it off, they were
burying them all next to each other with snappy little matching
coffins and coordinating headstones. Yet another knife twisting
consequence to my actions. I guess it was their way of holding on
to that last spark of hope that they may rest in peace together.
Makes me sick.

I can so clearly picture the townspeople all
standing in front of the church as it began to mist and rain,
mixing with their salty tears and clinging to their faces. Tears of
grief. Tears of torment. Tears that they all knew should have been
prevented. If only someone would have known what I was capable of.
If only someone would have stopped me. If only someone would have
listened. No one really thought I'd actually go through with it. I
guess they were wrong. It's funny, you know, what everyone knows
after the fact. Geniuses and prophets always seem to emerge in the
aftermath just in time to declare they had known all along, but
never thought to tell. What crap! You people all thought you knew
what happened, what my motives were, but had you truly known the
truth there would be no, “I told you so”. Despite all my
condescending rage against them, I cannot deny feeling horrific
guilt at my actions. The pain bursts through my insides in a
constant flow of razor-like cuts of remorse.

I ached to apologize, to scream and cry out,
“I'm sorry for what I've done!”

I ached to wake up from this nightmare.

How could I have done this? How could I have
hurt them all?! How could I have hurt her?

My Joanna.

She was my muse, my first crush, my best
friend...

Yet, still, I hurt her. I did this! But, it
wasn't just her that I hurt and grieved for. I hurt them all in one
way or another. Every one of them suffered at my hand. I caused
enough pain for everyone to endure for a lifetime. Or an eternity
in my case.

And there, in the cold wet mist, they stood
before the church three years ago. Those left behind to continue
suffering my actions. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, and
everyone else the victims shared their lives with. They all had to
gather around gleaming white, ironically angelic looking coffins
asking why. Why it had to be this person to die. Why it couldn't
have happened to someone else's child. Why couldn't I have just
died instead?

Each mourner so carefully dressed and pressed
in their Sunday best. Their coal black suits and dresses being
slowly dampened by the dewy weeping air that mourned beside them.
They bowed their heads, cupped their hands, and prayed. Prayed it
would never happen again. Not here. Not anywhere.

It's times like this that I realize I deserve
to be where I am. That's why They won't let you forget days like
that. They want you to remember the pain you caused. They want you
to always know how terrible you truly are. Ignorance is bliss. And
that is a sweet privilege that I will never taste.

As hard as I've tried, even after the years
have gone by, I can't forget. Those faces are forever cauterized
and scarred into the depths of my memories, never to heal. Twisted,
torn, angered, and betrayed. Some say that betrayal is even worse
than murder. Why should it not be fitting that I betrayed them all?
Especially my mother. My poor mother. She was always the one who
truly believed in me. She was the one who always thought I'd do
something great with my life. She never listened to the
not-so-quiet whispers of what a freak I was, how I just didn't fit
in, and how I would never amount to anything. Perhaps she should
have listened to them after all. Oh, how I wish I could

have proven her right.

My mother was once a wonderfully vibrant
woman, before I broke her spirit. Her bravery rivaled that of any
war hero that ever existed, and continues to do so. The day she
attended their

funeral with her head held high, even while
her heart slowly died inside was an insurmountable feat of courage.
I was so very proud of her bravery while the others shunned her
with their intense anger and fury. They didn't understand. It
wasn't her fault. She didn't make the decision that day. I did! I
did this!

It was I who made them cry.

It was I who caused their pain.

I, who was unconvincing!

I, who could not be reckoned with!

It was I who changed their lives.

But, they were still convinced that it was
she who stood by my side.

Yet, after every crucible they put her
through, she chose to stand by their sides and grieve with them for
their lost souls. I never knew how strong my mother could be until
that day. I had always known she was a fighter and a survivor, but
few could have lived through her trials and tribulations and still
kept their head held as high as she did. She mourned along side
those parents she barely knew, and for their children she knew even
less.

My mother's compassion and empathy was not
welcomed lightly by her fellow parents, however. What I viewed as
an intense act of bravery on her part was seen as something more
sinister. If anything, it was considered more of a slap in the face
than a friendly gesture. A vicious cold-hearted act of contemptuous
slap. This slap stung to no one more than Jackson Douglas, “Big
Jack”. His

hometown hero of a son was one of the victims
that grave day. Actually, he was to be my only prey until things
got out of hand. I'd been desperately wanting to derail his
arrogant crazy train since

freshman year.

Wait, I take that back. My entire life, I'd
been wanting to rid myself of that asshole. To end his long
standing reign of torment once and for all. However, the way in
which it all came to pass was

never my original intent. Fuel to the fire.
Like I said, things really did get out of hand...

The crumpled walnut colored handout trembled
slightly in her hand as she approached the large stone church. The
concrete steps were just a few feet away as she hustled to enter
the thick wooden doors before being seen.

“I can't goddamn believe you would actually
show your face here after what that monster of yours had done!” a
loud angered growl emerged from the crowd gathered on the church's
manicured lawn.

Jackson's six foot two, muscled frame
barreled in front of her as soon as he saw her approach the front
of the church. She tried to avoid his threatening taunts and keep
her eyes focused on the door, but with Jackson, avoidance often
became impossible when he was on a determined rampage, so blatantly
used to getting his way.

“I'm just here to say sorry and give my
condolences, Jackson. Please, at least let me pay my respects. I
think I'm owed that,” my mother said with reserved strength.

“Sorry?!” Jackson half gasped, half laughed
in absurdity.

She gazed down toward the ground, staring at
a dark patch of wet concrete on the sidewalk, silently pleading for
him to just turn and walk away. She had hoped he would sympathize
with her instead of condemning so quickly, but Jackson does not
sympathize well.

“You are owed nothing! Nothing! You have no
right to be here, respect or not. My son was going to make
something of himself! He had a chance to get the hell out of this
town and now he's gone because of you!”

There was such ferocity in his voice that her
breath caught deep within her throat, choking her with every
inflection. Chills raced through her calm demeanor, afraid of what
he might say next in the midst of the now attentive crowd. Tiny
fear-filled goosebumps rippled up and down her arms amplified by
the chilly breeze rustling through the air.

The other unaware parents began to now fixate
on the two. Their piercing eyes blazing with both fear and anger as
they now glared at her. One woman gave her a deathly icy stare,
while others began to whisper rapidly to each other. Their volume
increasing like locusts across the church yard. Everyone's
curiosity keeping them glued to the scene Jackson was now making.
His hatred toward my mother and I ran far deeper than the others'.
His entire life had revolved around his precious JJ, and now there
was nothing left to fill the empty void but broken dreams and
resentment.

Jackson towered malevolently over her. The
thick smell of his cheap cologne, mixed with the pungent scent of
stale cigars, suffocated the air around her. He hovered over her
delicate face, his breath steaming in the cool foggy air. The once
golden brown of his eyes now grew crimson as he came within inches
of her soft skin. Just the slightest aroma of whiskey whispered
across her nose with each breath he took. A brief moment of quiet
hesitation surrounded them both as they stared into each others
eyes. Her deep swimming blue eyes iced over quickly as she glared
back at Jackson. She was never one to be pushed around, especially
by him, and he knew it. Backed into a corner, this delicate flower
quickly turned from butterfly to bear at the blink of an eye.

Her voice grew deep and loathsome, “I cannot
see my son either, Jack. In case you've forgotten that. He was all
I had in this godforsaken town. All I had! You are not the only one
who lost somebody,” she peered over Jackson's shoulder at his wife,
Sarah, “at least you still have someone left. I'm completely alone.
Again.”