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Killer Impulse |
| Written by Bryce OGuinn | |
| Monday, 19 November 2007 | |
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Share it:      From the Final Unfinished Chapter
of the Autobiography of Philip Ellis
Entered Into Evidence as Exhibit B
April 11th, 1995
 “I don’t get it!” Billie said, for the third time. “Pa says we’s s’posed ta’ take the road. We’s not s’posed ta’ be walkin’ on da’ railroad tracks. So why’s we doin’ it?”“Would you shutcha’ face?” Robbie sneered. “We get’s sicka’ hearin ya’ whinin’ all’s da time.”
“But Pa says–”
Robbie cursed in frustration, his face flushing scarlet, then said:
“I don’t give a red rat’s tail what Pa says! Pa can stick it where the sun don’t shine for all I care’s!”
Listening to Billie and Robbie Snipes arguing all of the time, was like listening to a couple of rednecks from a Hollywood Western special starring Clint Eastwood. It seemed like they were always arguing every time I went anywhere with them. In fact, if I were to look at a schedule of the Snipes brothers’ daily events–if they even knew what one was–here’s what it would most likely look like: 5:50 a.m., get out of bed; 5:51 a.m., start an argument; 6:50 a.m., put the argument on hold and get dressed; 7:00 a.m., continue the argument; 9:00 a.m., end the argument and start another…
And so on.
I often thought that if I could go somewhere with just Robbie, the older of the two brothers, I could actually enjoy myself. Yet, no matter where Robbie went, who he went with, and/or how long he was going to be gone, Billie was always in attendance, flapping his jaw and arguing with Rob.
“I’m gonna’ tell Pa ya’ said that!” Billie wailed. “I’m gonna’ tell ‘im you was showin’ ’im disrespect!”
“Yeah! And I’ll have ya’ butt out the door! You ain’t tellin’ Pa nothin’! I reckon ya’ want to live anotha’ two days ta’ see ya’ twelth birthday!”
“I know’s wen ma’ birthday is!”
“Yeah right! You don’t know crap from a whole in the ground!”
“Why don’t you two clowns just shut up for once in your pitiful lives!” I said, my anger at listening to the two of them squawk at each other reaching its brim. “You sound like a couple of Yahoos!”
“Don’t go blamin’ me for dis crap! Billie’s the one who’s a Yahoo! Not me!”
“Am not!” Billie wailed.
“Are too!”
I rolled my eyes, knowing the argument was far from over.
“Am not!” Billie yelled again. “You jus’ think ya’ betta’ than I am, ‘cause ya’ four years older. ’Sides,” he turned ta’ me, “it ain’t are fault are lives is pitiful. It’s Bill Clinton’s fault!”
“Oh, great! Here we go’s agin’! Not dis Bill Clinton thang agin’!”
“Well it’s true!” Billie whined. “Pa says Bill Clinton–when he’s on tel’vision–he’s all, ‘God bless this country,’ and, ‘Save are souls.’ But as soon’s he’s behine’ da’ cam’ra, ever’thing’s eeeff thiiis, and eeeff thaaat, and eeeff Hiilaryy, and eeeff the Y’eeww Eeeess…”
Listening to Billie Snipes drawl on and on, I often wondered if he ever did any thinking for himself. It seemed like everything he said was always Pa say’s this, and Pa say’s that, as though his Pa was the basis of all the boy’s thoughts and ideas.
“Pa also thinks ‘dat da’ reason Sen’tor Paaackwood sexually haraaassed women, was ‘cause he’s tryin’ ta’ cov’ ’r’up for da’ fact ’dat he’s queer fir Haatfaild.”
“Would somebody shut him up?” I said, my anger reaching the end of its fuse.
“Billie, shut up!” Robbie said. “No one gives a rat’s rear end what Pa say’s ‘bout Clinton or Packwood or Hatfield or Screwfield or anyone else you’s kin think of! So jus’ shutcha’ trap ’for I smack ya’ upside da’’ head!”
“I’m gonna’ tell Pa’ ya said ’dat! I’m gonna’ tell ’im–”
“You ain’t gonna’ tell Pa’ nothin’. Ya hear? Nothin’! Nothin’ at all!”
Blessedly, silence befell between the two brothers at that point, and the three of us walked in silence for a few moments; a silence that was finally broken by Robbie.
“So tell me, Phil,” he said. “Have ya’ foun’ da’ Lawrd yet?”
“Have I found the Lord?”
“Yeah!”
“Haven’t been lookin’ for him, so I guess not,” I lied. “Why?”
“’Cause. ’Dat’s why…” For a second, I wasn’t sure Rob was gonna’ go on and I considered correcting the lie I told him. But before I could, Robbie started speaking again. “Three people ‘ave as’t me ’dat this week, Phil. Hear ’dat? Three people! Sick a hearin’ ’bout it! Wondered if you’da’ heard anyone ’dem preachers try’n ta’ convert ya’, and if so, if ya’ bought inta’ any’ve it.”
“Well, now. I can’t say I have.” I felt a stab of guilt at the blatant lie. Why did I care so much about what Rob thought of me?
“Oh?” Rob raised his eyebrows. “’Den you been lucky. Luuukyy! Ah tell ya’! If I hear one more word ’bout Gaawd and Jaaaysuus, Ah swear, I gonna’ shoot someone!
“There’s ’dis guy–frienda’ my pa’s–he comes over all da’ time. Name a’ Jesse I b’lieve…Yeah, Jesse be his name–Anyway, he’s one’a ’dem Jaysus freaks, tellin’ me if I fin’ Jaysus, Jaysus’ll saaave my soul, and all ’dat craaap!” Rob shook his head, then went on. “He say’s he c’n talk ta’ Jaaysus! He say’s he talks ta’ Jaaysus ev’ra’ mornin’ wh’all he’s in da’ shower! He say’s ’dat wh’all he’s havin’ trouble at work, he jus’ goes inta’ da’ men’s room and talk’s to Jaaysus there! Can ya’ ama’jin? In da’ men’s room, of all places!” Rob paused for a moment, then continued. “He say’s Jaaysus gives ’im answers through signs! Can ya’ b’lieve dat’? Signs! Ain’t ’dat ’da beggest crock a’ bull ya’ eva’ heard?!” Then rob cursed, shaking his head. “Tell it all ta’ Jaaysus! An’ ’da thang was, he was tryin’ ta’ get me doin’ da’ same thang! Can ya’ ama’jin? Me talkin’ ta’ Jaaysus! Oh man! Not a chance in heck! Nooott a chaaance in heck!”
We were just then emerging from the thick forest that ran along both sides of the railroad tracks, and saw that less than a quarter of a mile ahead–crossing the tracks in front of us–was Stafford Road. A moment later when we approached the road, we took a left, and headed the fifty yards to the Snipes’s small, white, paint peeled, house, off to the right.
In the front yard, scattered across the lawn–which was all dried out and growing in patches–were miscellaneous hunks of scrap metal. Hubcaps, tricycle parts–a wheel and axle in one corner of the lawn, and the other parts of the trike laying around here and there–old trash can lids, and some other unrecognizable scraps.
“You guys ever think about picking the trash up off your lawn?”
“Gotta’ problim with are lawn?” Billie cried out, defensively.
“It’s Pa’s junk,” Robbie said, ignoring his brother. “He jus’ leaves ’dis crap ’roun’ ah’ da’ time–say’s he’s gonna’ use it for sumpin’ some time, which a’course ain’t neva’ gonna’ happin. Say’s there ain’t no way he gonna’ be waistin’ fine scrap metal by jus’ throwin’ i’ t’away. An’ ’dat’s all i’ t’is. Scrap metal! Crappy Scrap Metal! Jus’ sits there on da’ front lawn rustin’ all ta’ heck!” Rob kicked one of the rusty aluminum cans that sat near the front porch, and a second later there was a loud clanging sound, as it made contact with the house’s siding to the left of the front door, which stood perfectly centered in the shag heap wooden building.
Rob pulled the screen open, led us inside, and on back to his bedroom, where through the window opposite the bedroom door there was a perfect view of the front lawn.
Rob pulled the curtains–dirty and in tatters–closed, cutting off any light from outside the house.
“Don’t wanna’ have ta’ look at ‘dat lawn no more! Tired a’ seein’ all ‘dat crap piled up out there day afta’ day. Ticks me off! Wish Pa’d get it tagetha’ and clean dat crap out!”
Rob cursed some more shaking his head, then fell silent.
“Don’t you think it’s a bit dark in here, Rob?” I said.
“Yeah. I do. Billie? Would ya’ turn on da’ light ’for smack ya’! Phil an’ I don’ like standin’ aroun’ in da’ dark!”
Obeying his brother’s command, Billie turned on the light, once again illuminating the bedroom, which–as usual–was a mess: dirty clothes lying around everywhere, draping off the unmade bed, covering the bookshelf and floor, and stuffed carelessly into the sliding-door closet to the left of the room’s entrance, wadded paper thrown here and there, and dust covering everything.
Satisfied with the lighting of the room, Rob dropped his bulk–consisting mostly of muscle–onto the edge of the bed, ran his hand through his light brown hair, and fixed his dark green eyes–embedded in his moon face–directly on me.
“Well,” he said, “now ’dat Bean-pole ova’ there has turned on the lights, we c’n get ta’ business.”
“I ain’t a bean-pole!” Billie whined.
“Are too! You as skinny as crap! Anyone could take you!”
“Well yer’ hair’s always a mess,” Billie retorted, “an’ shaggy all da’ time!”
“So’s yer’s, stupid.” Rob was gazing unwaveringly into his brother’s green eyes, which were almost hidden behind the shaggy bangs of his sandy-brown hair that was a perfect match of Rob’s own.
Billie, standing in front of the closet facing his brother, prodded the floor with the toe of his dingy-white sneaker, but said nothing.
After a moment Rob’s steely gaze dropped down to the floor, where a crumpled pack of cigarettes lay. As I watched him light up a smoke, I began to think about what it would be like to go somewhere with Rob, and not have Bill along. I discarded the thought immediately, knowing that it would never happen. Wherever Rob went, Billie went. They were always together. The same way they were always wearing the same thing: faded blue-jeans that were dirty and torn out at the knees and dingy white tee-shirts and shoes. It was a tradition not to be broken.
The thing was, I wore the same clothes they did, and–I discovered this one night while looking in the mirror at home–I didn’t look much different than they did. My hair was a little darker, and my eyes a lighter shade of green, but the features were similar. My build, however, was somewhere between the two brothers. Not as big as Rob, and not as scrawny as Billie.
“So, Ellis,” Rob said, as he puffed on his Pall Mall, “you written ‘dat po’m we’s s’posed ta’ write fir’ Anglish class?”
“Yeah.” I kicked at a pile of clothes with the toe of my shoe. “It’s stupid though. We’re supposed to be allowed to write song lyrics and use them for a poem if we want. But, I don’t know a thing about writing poetry, or lyrics for that matter.”
“Me neither.” Then: “You know Tom Kusie?”
I nodded. “What about him?”
“Stupid crack’s writin’ a love song ‘bout him an’ his girlfriend.”
“I’m gonna’ write a love song ‘bout me an’ Pa’!” Billie said suddenly.
“Ah bet you are,” Rob scoffed, sarcastically. “’Dat’s all you think ’bout anyway. You and flippin’ Pa!
“’Sides,” he continued after a moment. “Yer not even in ‘dat class.”
“I was jus’ kiddin’,” Billie whined, defensively.
“Sure ya’ were. ‘Dat’s prob’ly all ya’ think ’bout mos’ ’da time, is getting’ it on with Pa. ’Sides. You and him prob’ly actually do it! Wouldn’t sup’rise me a bit. You an’ him is so screwed up in da’ head.”
“That’s no way ta’ talk ‘bout Pa!”
“Why not? It’s prob’ly true! Bastard’s always gettin’ drunk mos’ da’ time!”
Both brothers fell silent, and for a moment nobody spoke. It was me who finally broke the silence.
“So, Rob,” I said. “You said earlier you wanted to show me something.”
“Yeah.” A sardonic smile crossed his face. “I do.”
For a second I thought he wasn’t going to tell what it was, as he sat there, his half smoked cigarette clenched between his teeth, his eyes boring into mine.
“Well?” I prompted him.
“Well, what?”
“What is it you want to show me?”
“You ain’t gonna’ go snitchin’ on me, are ya’?”
“Snitching? Why would I do a thing like that?”
“Jus’ checkin’. My personal exper’ence with Billie is ’dat he goes snitchin’ roun’ ’bout ever’thang, an’ it ticks me off! So I wanna’ know. You gonna’ keep a secret, or are ya’ gonna’ snitch?”
What the heck is he gonna’ show me that’s such a big secret? I wondered.
Aloud I said: “I can keep a secret.”
“Good.” Rob reached under the blanket with his right hand. “’Cause if ya’ don’t, I s’pose I gonna’ have ta’ come huntin’ ya’ down and kill ya’.”
I didn’t think he was serious, and yet a chill passed through me as he made the threat. Then, a second later, my uneasiness increased as Robbie pulled his hand out from under the blanket revealing a twenty-two pistol.
“What do ya’ thank?” Rob waved the gun carelessly around as he spoke.
“Is it loaded?” I tried to hide the nervousness I was feeling, as I spoke, but it did no good.
Rob pulled the cigarette from his mouth, between the pointer and middle finger of his left hand, and flicked the ashes onto the floor, as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. At the same time, he was still carelessly waving the pistol around.
“Oh, yeah. It’s loaded all right.” Rob plugged the cigarette back into his mouth, and when he spoke again, it was through clenched teeth. “Clip is full, and there’s even a bullet in da’ chamber. Come here Ellis, an’ A’ll show ya’ how ‘dis thang works.”
“Where’d you get it from?” Suddenly I wished I hadn’t come over here at all. There was something strange in Robbie’s eyes that was beginning to make me uncomfortable.
“Borrowed it,” Rob was saying. “’Bout a mile north a’ here, there’s dis creep–deals drugs an’ crap. Anyway, he takes ‘dis trip ta’ who knows where, an’ wh’all he’s outta’ town, I jus’ let myself in through da’ back door–stupid freak di’n’t even have ‘nough sense to puts a good lock on ‘dat door. So I jus’ let’s myself in borrowed a few thangs: Some a’ his coin collection an’ dis.” He waved the gun around as he referred to it as ‘dis.’ “Basically, ’da guy who I took ’dis from says I c’n borrow from his place any time I wants, as long as he don’t know ’bout it.” Then, steadying the gun so that its muzzle was pointed directly at Billie’s abdomen, he continued to speak threw his teeth.
“Here’s da’ safety switch.” He flipped the switch off and cocked the gun. “And now it’s ready ta’ fire. We goin’ kick some butt with dis sucker.”
Seeing where the gun was pointed, along with the nervousness in Billie’s eyes, I began to feel a weakness in my legs. This was all too much like a time three years ago when a friend of mine in Salem–not far from this town–had been showing me his pistol. He’d had the gun loaded, cocked, with the safety shut off, and pointed at my chest. A sensation of weakness had come over me at the sight of the gun’s black barrel, my legs began to wobble, and I had begun to tremble. In that instant, the strangest feeling had come over me: the feeling that while I was staring down that black barrel, I was gazing–for just a second–directly at death.
When I told my friend not to point the gun at me, he just chuckled and said that he was an expert when it came to guns, and that there was no way that the gun would go off in his hands.
Then to my shock, he’d turned the gun on himself, holding the gun to his head, pressing down on the trigger, and smiled the whole time. I thought the gun would fire. Then he lowered it from his head, laughing at the look on my face. “Jeez, Philly, you looked like death warmed over. You sure did.”
Then he showed me that the gun had indeed been loaded.
“I know, what your thinking, Philly,” he’d said. “I’m not the weapons expert I claim to be or I’d know not to point the gun in anyone’s direction, but rather toward an area where it could not be of threat to anyone–or anything else that lived for that matter–and I wouldn’t be pointing the gun at my own head.
“Fact is Philly, I already know that. I just like livin’ life on the edge. What if the gun had gone off? Killed ya’? Killed me? Really somethin’, huh? On edge. That’s how to live.”
As I remembered this, remembered how my friend as much as told me that he’d known he could have killed me or himself, I felt a wave of uneasiness come over me. I wondered if Rob was aware–the way my old friend had been aware–that he was putting another person’s life in danger. I gazed at the way that Robbie had his gun–correction, his neighbor’s stolen gun–pointed at Billie, and I wondered if Rob honestly thought the gun wouldn’t go off, or if he just didn’t care.
As for Billie, I could see by the look in his eyes, and the way the blood had drained from his face, that he was feeling much–if not exactly–the same way I had felt three years ago, when I had encountered the same situation he was confronted with now.
I didn’t know what to make of what I was seeing right then. I had known Robbie and Billie Snipes since they moved out here from Lawton, Oklahoma a year and half ago, and though Rob wasn’t the brightest guy in the world, he didn’t seem like the type who’d be dumb enough to carelessly point a gun at someone. In all honesty, this was the kind of thing I would have expected Billie to do, with all of the dumb things he had to say about him and his ‘pa.’
“C-c’n ya’ point that somewhere else?” Billie whimpered, nervously.
“Ah, don’t be such a wuss!” Robbie sneered, pulling the butt of his cigarette from between his teeth, throwing it onto a bare patch on his floor, and crushing it with his left foot. “Jayz, yer such a baby! ’Sides, I’m real good with guns.”
“I ain’t a wuss!” Billie tried to keep his voice from quavering. “I’m jus’ bein’ cautious, ’dat’s all.”
“Yeah! Sure ya’ are! You is scared. Why? I jus’ don’t reckon, but you is scared.”
“I ain’t either!” There was a short pause, where Rob gazed coldly at Billie, and Billie stared fearfully back. My feeling of unease continued to grow, and I wanted to say something but didn’t for fear that Rob would turn on me with the pistol. Then, when Rob finally turned his attention back to showing me how to use the gun, Billie spoke again and cut Rob off before he had a chance to say anything.
“How da’ ya’ work the gun?” he said, trying to sound tough, yet not succeeding. “I mean, how da’ ya’ operate it an’ all?”
“Here, A’ll show ya’.” Rob smirked, and suddenly fired two shots into his brother’s abdomen, not even so much as flinching at the cracking of the gun!
Billie’s hands groped at his midsection–where a crimson stain was spreading. For a moment, blood gushed over his hands. Then he crumpled slowly to the floor, his hands falling away as the life drained out of his open eyes… The eyes… The eyes…
It was the eyes I would always remember. Those wide green empty eyes, gazing blankly up at us, accusing us. It was those eyes that haunted my dreams in the nights that followed that horrible day. It was always the same dreams. Dreams of Billie lying on the floor of Robbie’s room grabbing hold of me, as I drew close enough to peer down at him, his empty gaze fixing on me. Accusing me. Dreams of Billie coming for me as I lay in bed at night, standing over my bed, staring down at me with that empty gaze. Dreams of opening my closet door and Billie–his hands clutching his bloody midsection–stepping out of the closet reaching his bloody hands out for my throat, and gazing at me with those blank eyes…
It always stayed with me. Tortured me. Filling me with guilt. Guilt I hope will ease by writing this story.
I can still remember the shock I had felt at what I had just witnessed. The shock. The disbelief. The speechlessness. Then I felt a surge of revulsion at what Robbie had done, the revulsion that thrust me into reality, helping me to find my voice.
When I finally spoke, I was nearly yelling at Rob, my voice filled with a mixture of horror, rage, and anguish.
“Why did you do that?” I demanded. “Why the heck did you do that!”
“’Cause I felt like it,” Rob replied, calmly with no traces of emotion.
“You didn’t have to do that!”
“He deserved it!” Rob replaced the gun under the covers, and stood up so that he was facing me, his dark eyes boring into mine. “I don’t give a fig what I had ta’ do, or what I d’n’t have ta’ do! Livin’ with Billie all these years is like livin’ in prison! Ever’where Ah go, he goes. Ever’thing Ah do, he tries ta’ imitate. And no matter where we go or what we be talkin’ ’bout, he jus’ runs on an’ on ’bout Pa. Pa says this. Pa says that. Like Pa is some kinda’ god or sumpin’. It’s jus’ a crock a horse crap, an’ it get’s old afta’ ’while!”
“But… But why did you… you shoot him?” my voice cracked, and unbidden tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over.
“Stop yer’ whinin’! Jus’ stop! You don’t know half da’ pain! You don’t know crap ’bout nothin’! All da’ times Pa beats us. Gets drunk an’ beats us!”
I could see the pain in Robbie’s eyes. So deep. So intense. It tore at me. It was strange that through all the sorrow I felt for Billie, and the anger I felt toward Rob for what he had just done, I felt a wave of sympathy for him too. I felt compassion for both of the Snipes brothers, and terror at what I had just witnessed.
“It wasn’t jus’ Pa,” Robbie went on. “T’was Ma, too. She was worse ’den Pa! She was always beatin’ us ’til we was bloody. Pa beats us blue, but not like Ma! An’ ’den afta’ Ma kicked da’ bucket–heart attack, they had said it was–Pa’ couldn’t even get a good job! Ma was always able ta’ at least get good work. Pa can’t even get nothin’ betta’ ’den a gas station. An’ ’den he takes his failure out on us. Always tellin’ us we aint good enough. ’Dat we don’t measure up! Whatever da’ heck ’dat means! An ’den he drinks! An’ ’den he poun’s us!
“Well, I’m tired a’ takin’ crap from him!” he continued after a short pause. “I’m tire’da’ crap ’dat he does and da’ thangs ’dat he say’s. Soon as he gets home from work I’s gonna shoot ’im jus’ like Billie. Hadn’t planned on shootin’ Billie. But he wouldn’t shut ’is stupid mouth. Den’ it occurred to me suddenly a moment ago ’dat I could be ridda’ ’im. Jus’ like ’dat. So I pull’da’ trigga’ jus’ like ’dat. An’ ta’night, I’s gonna get ridda’ Pa. Take care a’ da’ old jerk once an’ fir all! I’m done with ’is crap and the thangs he says ta’ us. An’ Billie–he worships the firsakin’ groun’ Pa walks on! I get so sicka’ hearin’ ’im run on an’ on ’bout Pa! ’Dat’s all he talks ’bout; him an’ Pa! As far’s I’m concerned, Pa c’n git stuffed with Ma, and’ Billie c’n git stuffed with ’im!”
“So you shot him,” I whispered, and saw a flicker of guilt in Robbie’s eyes at the words. Guilt and pain. All traces of the cold rage and anger momentarily dissipated. Rob glanced sideways at the crumpled body of his brother, and for the first time really saw what he had done. I thought he was going to cry. I could even see the tears welling in his eyes. But then the coldness returned to his eyes, as he snapped his head back toward me, the cold rage in which he had buried his pain for so long.
The rage is easier for him, I thought. The rage hurts so much less than the pain. So he buries the pain. Buries it in hatred. The festering hatred that just reached its breaking point.
Though I felt compassion for Robbie, I still knew that what he had done was wrong and inexcusable. Yet, having seen what I’d seen, and knowing I despised what he’d done, I didn’t quite know what should be done. Before I could begin to think about it, Robbie–his cold eyes fixed on me, all traces of the pain I’d seen in them a moment ago completely gone–spoke.
“Git ridda’ him!” he whispered, though his voice was harsh. “Don’t care how ya’ do it, or where ya’ put ‘im, jus’ so long as no one finds ‘im, an’ you get ridda’ him! There’s plenty a’ forest aroun’ here ta’ stash da’ body ‘way. I’m gonna’ get some plastic ta’ wrap da’ body in, so ‘dat none a da’ blood get’s on ya’ clothes.
“An’ while yer’ gettin’ ridda’ da’ body, you’s c’n thank ’bout what I said. An’ thank ’bout what kinda’ future we’s c’n have. We c’n kill my pa’ tagetha’. But it don’ have ta’ stop there. We’s c’n get even with ever’one who crosses are path. Ever’ one. Maybe even waist a few a ’dem Jaysus freaks. Ya’ might not think ya’ have it in ya’. But ya’ do. We all do. You think ’bout ’dat while you gettin’ ridda’ ’dat body. A’ll be back in a moment wid’ da’ plastic.”
Before I could even respond, Robbie left the room, his heavy footsteps trudging down the hall toward the living room.
For a moment I just stood there, gazing at the crumpled body on the floor, feeling a wave of guilt for just standing by while Robbie did what he did. If only I’d tried to get the gun away from Rob before he fired the weapon. If only I’d spoken up, tried to convince Rob to put the gun way. If only I had been honest with him about what I believed in, when he’d asked me about my faith earlier. If only…
But there were too many ‘if only’s’, and too much guilt. What was done was done, and no one could change it. And what disturbed me most, was the realization that Rob was right about one thing. I did have it in me to do what he did. As I had listened to him talk about killing everyone who crossed our paths, I had felt a certain magnetism, a certain dark temptation to join forces with him, to take him up on his suggestion.
I could see how Rob could develop a taste for his own cruelty. I could see how his pain had been buried in rage and hatred and how that rage and hatred had driven him mad. I could see that I could do the same thing.
The rage and hatred. It spread like a disease. A disease that festered. Just like it festered in Robbie’s parents, and was handed down to Robbie and no doubt to Billie, as well. I wondered if Robbie’s parents were infested with their own parents’ rage or if they had simply chosen their own path of evil without cause or reason. There was no way to know.
How did it begin? I wondered. And where does it all end?
Sinking to the edge of the bed, I buried my face in my hands, as if to hide from the body on the floor, and tried to think. What should I do? I knew I should report what I’d seen, yet, even as this idea came to mind, so did the memory of the pain in Robbie’s eyes. The pain I knew was real. The pain that I knew was a part of Robbie Snipes that no one had ever seen before. Remembering that pain, I felt myself wanting to help Robbie cover up what he’d done. And once again I felt that certain dark attraction to following Robbie’s suggestion of joining him down a path of evil.
Then I remembered Billie’s eyes. Those blank staring eyes.
The eyes! God help me, the eyes!
The eyes that would stay with me for the rest of my life, haunting my dreams, tearing at my heart, and torturing my conscience.
Why hadn’t I taken the opportunity to share the truth with Rob when he’d asked me about finding God? Would he have listened? Would he have chosen not to show me his gun and thus not suddenly on impulse shoot his brother?
I suppose I wouldn’t ever know. But I realized what had to be done. I had failed to take the opportunity to share the truth with Rob earlier, but that didn’t mean I had to fail to report the truth of what I had just witnessed to the police. There was a phone in the living room. Hopefully Robbie wouldn’t return from the garage or shed or wherever he was looking for the plastic to dispose of the body with before I had completed the call. If he did, he’d likely kill me, too.
zzzz
The Penitentiary
June 2nd, 2003
“Good ta’ see ya’ Phil,” Rob Snipes said. “Been a while.”
“How’s it going?”
“How can it be? It ain’t fun in here, but ’den ya’ turned me in ’cause ya’ had ta’. Guess I understand ’dat now.”
And how I wanta’ kill ya’ now, Rob thought privately. I ain’t goin’ tell ya’ ’dat now, ’cause ah might scare ya’ outa’ town and neva’ find ya’, soon’s I get outa’ ’dis place!
“You really aren’t mad at me?” Phil said.
Rob cursed, shaking his head, then said:
“Heck no! Wah be mad? Ain’t gonna’ do no good. Ah’d ratha’ make sumpin’ of myself soons ah get outa’ here!
“Ah told Pa, as soons ah get outa’ prison, Ah gonna’ get maw eju’cation. Mayba’ get a job and crap like ’dat. Pa coulda’ cared less, but ’den he acted like nothin’ happened when Billie kicked ’da bucket!”
And thanks ta’ you, jerkface, Rob thought, Ah had ta’ spend da’ last eight years in prison layin’ aroun’ bein’ constantly ramaunded ’bout how Billie died. They won’t let me firget how ah killed ’im!
“Well,” Rob said aloud. “Maw five minutes is up. I betta’ be goin’!”
“Yeah,” Phil said. “It was good seein’ ya’. I better get home anyway and see my wife and kids.”
He feels guilty, Rob thought, seeing the look on Phil’s face as he turned away. Comin’ to see me ramawnded ’im of watchin’ me shoot Billie an’ now the jerk’s gonna end it fir ’imself. He gonna’ take ’is own life!
Rob smiled to himself.
zzzz
The Penitentiary
June 3rd, 2003
“Wha’ ’tis it, guard?” Rob asked the security guard who stood on the outside of the barred door to Rob’s cell.
“It’s about your friend, Philip Ellis.”
“What ’bout ’im?”
“He killed himself last night. We thought since you were the last person to talk to him, we should let you know.”
“How’d he do it?”
“He cut his wrists and then hung himself. He left a note.”
“Wha’ ’tit say?” Rob asked, even though he knew it was confidential. To his surprise, the guard answered the question.
“It said he couldn’t… Sir, it deals with the reason you’re here.”
“Jus’ tell me wha’ ’tit says, for crime’ney sakes! Or is it confidential?”
“Yes, it is confidential, but it specifically requests that you see it.
“The thing is, I don’t want to upset you.”
“Jus’ tell me what it said.”
The guard took a deep breath and then signaled someone that Rob couldn’t see. A second later a tall police woman holding a file folder came into view. She opened a file she was holding and removed a plastic zip-lock bag containing a piece of lined paper. After covering the upper half of the zip-locked letter, she held it up so Rob could read the bottom half through the bars of his cell door.
“Top half was to his wife and kids,” she said, her steely blue eyes boring into him. “So I can’t let you read it. The rest is for you. There’s a second page in another zip-lock bag in the folder. Let me know when you’ve finished reading this page, so I can show you the rest.”
Rob gazed at what was written.
Rob,
I just can’t continue on living with what I know about the death of your brother. I should have been honest with you eight years ago when you asked me about my belief in God. You asked me that question, because you were testing me, trying to see if I was the type who would tell on you if you showed me a stolen gun. But I lacked the courage to tell you the truth. Perhaps if I had, you might not have shown me that gun. And then Billie would still be alive.
I went to my pastor about this. I told him that I not only failed to be honest with you, but I felt tempted to help you cover up the crime. Worse, I felt tempted to join you in killing your father and more, when you made that suggestion to me
My pastor told me not to be so hard on myself. But the head of the children’s ministry overheard my conversation, and I soon paid the price. I was a minister for six-year-old children, and I was making a difference. But then parents started requesting that the other teachers work with their children instead of me. I soon found out why when one of the parents informed me that the head of the children’s ministry had informed him that I was involved in a murder once and had considered going on a murder spree. He told me that he was going to ask the head of the children’s ministry to go with him to the pastor to have me removed from the ministry. He stated flat out that a murderer had no place working with children.
Rob gave a nod to the police officer and–her steely gaze still fixed on him–she showed him the second page.
I knew then that the head of the children’s ministry was the reason for the treatment I was getting. She had been telling all of the parents what I had told the pastor. Worse, the pastor agreed to have me removed from the ministry and soon after, everyone in church started giving me the cold shoulder. Even the pastor himself started shutting me out. The kids in church started calling my kids names, and the women at church were trying to convince my wife to divorce me. And there were phone calls. People telling me that I should be in jail, too. They told me that I wasn’t really a Christian or I would feel remorseful enough to confess to the police that I was an accessory to murder and accept my punishment.
I realized then that I was only a burden to my family, so I came to see you. I meant to talk to you about it and tell you I was sorry for not being honest with you about God. But when I saw you paying the price for Billie’s death, while I had a family and a good paying job, I realized how unfair it was that you should pay the price while I shouldn’t. I realized that the church was right. I had no business working with kids. I was only a burden to my family. I don’t want to die, but I can see now that my kids will be treated better once I’ve paid the price. If I’m guilty of what the church says I’m guilty of, then I should be put to death. I want to stay alive and see my kids grow up, but I can’t think about what I want. I have to think about what’s right. I now see that the church is right. I should pay the price. The legal system won’t give me the death penalty, but I still should be put to death. Therefore, I have to put myself to death.
I’m sorry that you had to pay the price when I didn’t. But now I’m accepting my responsibility. Rob, just make sure to do one thing. Make sure you don’t reject the truth. The truth will set you free.
Your friend,
Phil
Below that was the notation that requested specifically for Rob to see the note.
Rob shook his head, cursing.
The police woman put the letter back into the folder, and then said to the guard, “Do you need anything else?”
“That’ll be all.” Then the guard turned to Rob. “I’m sorry about Phil. I know you two were friends.”
“Once maybe!” Rob’s eyes gleamed coldly. “But not fir eight years. He shoulda’ put himself outa’ his misery long ago!” Rob lay back down, his eyes settling on the ceiling. “Don’t care at all that he’s dead. I’m glad. Jus’ wish I coulda’ killed ‘im mah’self!”
zzzz
Excerpt From Rob Snipes’ Journal
Pages 43 – 45
June 3rd, 2003
…and despite what I told the security gard bout bein glad that Phil’s dead, I still feel gilt inside. Not just bout Phil, but bout Billie too. I think its causa da way he scribed how his church treated him. Dat kinda crap is why I always thought those clowns was fulla bull. They preached Jeezuss and luv and crap, but then they turn round and stab yew in the back. Anywae, I never shooda shot Billie and in the beginnin’ I hadn’t tended to. I had only tended to invite Phil over to show him the gun I stoled and mayba take it out and shoot it in the forest. Peg a bird or two mayba’ even a squirl. I spose Phil would’ve ajected to killin’ the animals. Dats jus Phil. Mayba’ he be right. I reckon I never no bout dat. Ain’t no wae ta ask a dead man. Anawae, I bleeve the reesin I shot Billie was causa what he said bout writin a luv song bout him n Pa.Of ol da dumm thangs fir him to say. I blieve him sayin this, along to his constint worshup of Pa, hoo always beet us to the point that I hated him, got to me. In my anger tord Billie, I jus poled da trigger.
Win I shot him, the only gilt I felt wus win Phil ast me why I shot him and forst me to look at wut I dun. I stuffed da gilt awae fast thoe. Butt after I caim to prizin, the gilt tride to *** back. Over time I coodent stufit away no longer. Now its ol I think bout.
I member da cops interr’gatin’ me. Three a them soroundin’ me, gettin in my faiss, screamin’ at me dat thae new dat Billiez merder was preemedicated or wut ever da werd iz. Thae tolt me I were lion win I splained I hadent tended to shoot him. I jus did. Butt thae jus kept after me til I tolt them what thae wanted to here.
“Yes,” I tolt them. “I thot it out bafor I shot Billie. I had bin plannin it fir dayz.”
So I gaiv them a B.S. storee bout how I’d *** bout my plan to kill Billie.
Now I feel I cant go on. Mayba I shood do as Phil did and ind it. Yes, that’s wut I must do…
June 3rd, 2003
I spent ol nite thinkin bout it. Thinkin bout endin it. Then Ah start thinkin bout everthing. Thinkin bout Billiez deth. Thinkin bout Philz non ficshunal story acount bout Billiez deth, witch he rote afta da incident fir wut ever reezun. Thinkin bout how dat story acount wuz red on da’ wittniss stand by dat cop hoo testufied aginst me in cort. I member how as dat copp red wat Phil had rittin, therr wuz this part ware Phil had said dat he wished he’d been onist with me bout his baleef in God. Dat maybe I wood not a shot Billie if he had. Thinkin bout dat agin made me think. And as I thot, I felt myself wishin more than ever I wer ded.
And so I spent da rest a the nite thinkin bout endin it ol. I jus cant bring myself to do it. I meen wut if therz a hell? If I ind it ol now, will I goe to hell? Did Phil Ellis go to hell? I want to change wut I am. I no I yooz ta hait tockin bout God, but now I feel there must be sumpin’ better than this. My problim wuz with da church. With da fact dat these peeple hoo clame thae love God are stabbin eech otha in da backs, like thae done ta’ Phil. Butt there mus be sumpin’ betta than dis. So I will keep on goin’ and trie to chainj. Its ol I can do. Its wut I shood do. Mayba’ therz hope. I blieve there iz. I blieve therz a God. I blieve with hiz help, I can chainj what I am.
Original Version © 1995 Bryce D. O’Guinn
Revised Version © 2005 Bryce D. O’Guinn
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