Progeny - J. Ryan Elgin

PROGENY





J. Ryan Elgin







Maybe the head was somewhere in the field? Possibly, it was there, under the stiff grey clouds. Or he could have kept it, and put it on his mantle.
The sky was become hauntingly dour, even sinister in appearance. Those who slowly walked in the wild, wet and twisted grasses could attest to the sickness of the entire situation.
It was a culmination of several totally evil acts. Who could thrive and be enthralled, by searching for a young woman’s head? At least they had located the rest of her.

Please don’t let her be face up.
Please don’t let her eyes be open, staring and terrorized.
Please don’t let her have been chewed on by rats.
Please don’t let her head be buzzing with maggots and insects.
“What did you do today Daddy?”
‘Oh… I looked for this girl’s head.’

It was not a task that anyone wanted to complete or to be a success. Finding her head would only cause nightmares, and the abrupt urge to vomit after a memory flash. Surely one would flicker on the terror she had lived through, imagine the violence waged upon her body.
Anyone could see that she had been much more than simply decapitated. She had been tortured- then brutalized- then dehumanized- then probably had the programme repeated a few more times.
Why is there always a certain stillness at scenes of such horror? It is as if time and nature have decided to pay homage to the victim. Everything seems hazy, but there is also crispness in the air that makes everyone acute to his senses.
The looks of fear, of disbelief, and of anger were on all faces.
The rest of her corpse was located, bare and supine, in a creek, water gently lapping her sides. Her neck bone stuck out, crudely twisted from the tissue and muscle. She was covered with bite marks, bruises, burns, ligature marks, all committed on her once youthful frame. There was a white-blue tint to her skin, as if she had been drained of her blood, of her soul.
Investigators walked around in a daze, searching the field for anything that could help. They needed clues to get the unsub, this scum, something that could put him away where he could not do this to another innocent girl.
By the immediate evidence, the indication was that their killer was sick. Either he did not fully understand how to remove a head from a body, or got-off on the way he had completed the job, which was in an inhumane and laboured manner. It was as if he had yanked her head off. It was a sickening gesture from the demented mayhem of its artist.















CREATION


FAMILY


Brett's Grandparents were nothing like his Father. He was just three when they passed away. They had left a sizeable estate, and Brett had a trust waiting for him when he would be 25.
Foreseeing the future growth of Chesterton they had bought much of the land onto which the suburb would spread. They had also bought a nickel and dime golf course that was a ten-minute drive from the Government buildings, on the Cartier side. They had a posh country club built and that was enough to gather the rich political elite.
In this crunch of quality-time came the birth of Theodore Thomas Normand. He would be raised to barely to know his hard-driven parents. The result was that Ted grew up angry, and unaware of what family relationships were supposed to be. This all swung down on Brett.
Subconsciously, he was probably taking out his lack of a childhood on his own son. Now he was too blind from the bottle to see what he was doing to Brett and Vera.
Ted Normand was not a tall man. His renowned short-fused temper brought his image up to over six feet. He was also rarely seen with anything but a four-day beard.
Women seemed attracted to this style, the scabrous personality. Ted always was on the edge of throwing a punch at somebody around him at all times. Ladies, with the 'I can Mother him' attitudes, used to slide in beside him on the bar stools. Women will always be sadly mistaken to learn they could not change this type of man. The inner cavity of an acrimonious man can never be tamed by beauty or love.
Ted had lost his driver's licence long before Brett was born. It did not bother him that he could not drive; it had always interfered with his socializing and drinking. Now he didn't have to watch himself, Vera would always come and get him.
Early in the holy dread-lock, Vera had worked as a receptionist at a local senior's home. Ted had forced her to leave that job to become his private taxi service. Her place was in the home anyway, as Ted often told her.
Vera was from a quiet French Roman Catholic family. Her last name was common in the area, Chouinard. They had met at a bar, and she fell for him the way most women did. She thought she could harness this man's violent raging. Her notion was wrong, but she found out too late.
When she had realized what a major mistake she had made it was too late. Vera already had Ted's ring on her finger. She could have left him, but she feared for her life to do that, it was already violent enough. Vera was also from a religious family, and that really meant until death do you part.
Then came the birth of Brett Normand, and the cement shoes of commitment were dried solidly to her feet. She had to stay, there was nothing else to consider.
Nevertheless, Vera could dream, wish. She did a great amount of that. She would fantasize about other men, never Ted. Vera had to live with her flawed emotional error.
Vera Normand now bided her days at being a Mother to Brett, a wife to Ted, a cab, and a virtual lump in front of the Zenith. Everything she had become was tainted by the repugnant scent of Ted Normand, the misbegotten son. She resented Brett for her plight, maybe it would have been easier to have left long ago if not for that boy.
She never tried to let Brett feel her ugly emotions, or take things out on him, the boy was half her too. It was hard for her to feel anything but antipathy toward the things that enveloped her existence.
Vera had long lost interest in sex with her spouse, even learned to loathe the entire ordeal, which is what Ted had burgeoned. She knew he was often unfaithful but never let on. Who knows what he would do to her then? Vera could smell other women's odours all over him when he stumbled in late. She did not really care anyway, maybe he knew that.
She would putout whenever he wanted her, but she was not there. Only her abused shell was there for him, a body he could command, take pleasures from, and pummel. Her only sexual satisfaction came while she was alone; it was her only alternative.
Like little Brett, Vera had to live under strict rules brought on by Ted. Sex anytime he wanted it, meals had to be readied on time, even though he might be parked at a bar stool, hours late. The house had to be spotless, his clothes washed to specifications. Even Vera saw the unfriendly side of that black belt he liked to twirl and she had the welts and scars to prove it.














THE NORMAND HOME
SPRING OF 1971


He would never forget the way that place smelled, felt. The scent was one that would mean safety, security.
It was damp and dusty under his bed. The five year old had often sought refuge there from the outside world, there with the dust bunnies. The hardwood floor offered little comfort, but a little boy does not notice those things. His anxiety would dissipate once in the embrace of this lonely hideout. For company he brought along a well-worn teddy bear, a toy that stood up to punishment without tears.
It was not his bedtime yet but he knew it was time for him to remain quiet and still. His Father's rules kept on changing and no matter how hard he tried, he would always seem to break a few each day.
Dad only wanted to make a man out of him. The boy tried really hard but could not come up with a way to please him, please Dad. He realized the price he would have to pay for his mistakes.
The little boy often dreamed of being some place else, away from his parents. He often wished he were someone else. The wish was a distant dream; he had come to know that. He kept these wishes with his fears, deep inside. He was never taught to let them out; it was a sign of weakness.
Don't ever cry, don't ever show fear, these were Dad's two most heard lessons. This had been carved into the boy's fragile eggshell mind.
He never questioned parental guidance, never dared question his Father's reasoning. The boy was a product of his environment, as his Father was the product of his own, and sometimes bad products keep repeating.
The boy waited under his bed. He had broken a rule. He kept still, quiet, waiting for his mishap to be discovered.
While bathing he had neglected to totally close the shower curtain. Some water managed to get on the black and white scuffed tiles. It was only a handful of drops, but enough to raise Dad's wrath.
He might have tried to dry it up with his towel, but if he had been caught, doing that the result would have been three errors. The mistakes; the towel would be soiled, the floor would be damp and he would have been trying to cover up a mistake. Trying to get away with anything was a Cardinal sin.
Maybe Dad wouldn't see the drops? Maybe he was too drunk? He felt a shallow wave of hope, though deep down he knew better. The little boy knew better than to hope. "Wishing will get you nowhere." That is what Father had taught him several times.
'Where is he!’ The boy heard his Father yell from the hallway, just outside his bedroom. 'Where is that stupid little fuck-up! Brett!’ Dad continued to yell with a familiar acrimony.
The boy could see his Father standing in the opening to his room, his body cast out a shadow across the braided rug. 'Brett!’ He shouted again. The rattle of the windowpane was his only response.
Brett did not move; he did not dare.
'Vera...is that ugly little bastard down stairs?’ He could hear Father's footsteps tread heavily to the top of the stairwell.
'No Ted, he isn't,' Mother replied without much care.
'You'd better not be giving me one of your lies bitch! Ya know what that little puke did up here!’ Ted menaced with his words, always. '...Little fuck,' He mumbled as he turned down the hall.
'I haven't seen him since he went to wash up,' Vera tried to impart truth, to avoid further wrath from Ted.
'Jesus H. Fucking Christ!’ Ted stormed up the hallway. His stomps could be felt the house over.
Brett could hear his Mom turn up the sound of the television; she was watching “Jeopardy”, her favourite show in that time slot.
Ted now stood stiff in his doorway, twitching with frustration. 'That's it. I'm gonna get the damn belt!’
The boy started to breathe heavier, calm his fears, hoping his hiding spot would suffice this time. Brett did not think what he had done merited the belt. He tried to comprehend the severity of his error. He could hear Ted bashing things around from the upstairs closet.
'Where the hell are you Brett!’ Ted yelled upon uncoiling the black leather belt from the upstairs closet. 'Ugly stupid...little fucking...,' He muttered as he stormed back and forth through the hall. Silence again visited the upstairs; Brett could hear Ted breathing, wildly.
Then Ted left. The boy could hear him banging around in the other rooms, opening closets. He was checking all of his other recently used hiding spots, he hadn't been under the bed for a spell, and it seemed too flagrant.
Sometimes this process was just a test for the young boy, Ted giving him ample time to give himself up and face the punishment. Then again, sometimes Ted would actually be too far loaded for bear to locate his child. It was a fifty-fifty situation.
'Damn you!’ He heard Ted explode. This was quickly shadowed by the crack of the demon belt. It sounded as if it slashed into a plastic switch plate, scattering the shards across the hardwood flooring.
The ensuing silence sped the pounding in Brett's tiny chest. Did Ted finally figure out where he was hiding? Was Dad in his room and he just couldn't hear him? Sneaking up on him? Brett did not dare flinch.
He saw the shadow of the man again, Ted was in his doorway. The boy could feel the heat from Ted's enraged eyes scanning the room. Brett could feel the blackness of his vengeance. The boy twisted a little, silently, and could see the tip of the belt, feel the invisible presence of evil, lapping the floor by his Dad's feet.
The belt was an inch and a half wide and an eighth of an inch thick. It never seemed to wear or tire from use. It even seemed to enjoy its position within their family. The black leather texture seemed to snarl at Brett, as if it had spotted him under the dark of the bed.
In all its infamy the belt had indeed elicited an existence all its own. If they had posed for a family portrait this black wraith would be proudly displayed in one of Ted's swaggering fists. The silvery studs seemed to call, wanting to meet the boys’ welts and still healing skin.
Brett held his breath, sensing that his Father would be listening for that faint sound. A fresh layer of sweat replenished the moisture that had stayed on the boy’s skin from washing. He hated that belt as most as much as he hated his Dad, they both made him hurt.
The young boy had an assortment of good hiding spots in and around the old white house and most of the time could escape from being accosted. His hide depended on this wherewithal. Brett would hide under the living room sofa, the bathroom vanity, beneath the kitchen sink, in his Mom's plastic clothes' keeper, to name a few. His optimum spot, though, was in the hall closet and this he would save for when Ted was in a real big rage.
The closet was unusual. Due to Ted's long time bouts of frustration and bursts of anger on the nearest objects: walls, doors and furniture. The closet's walls and guides were in terrible condition. It was precarious how the shelving managed to keep holding up the towels and bedding. With the door shut, Brett could see out into the hall through the cracks in the frame. Through the other cracks he could see into the bathroom as well as his Parent's bedroom. Brett would watch over his Parents for hours, but mostly it was just his Mother to see.
Luckily, the boy had never been caught or even suspected of spying on them. Who knew what the punishment would have been for that infraction, and Brett did not want to find out.
He had just enough room in the closet to ease out the shelving from the back wall and slide up behind them, putting his feet on the bottom shelf. Thank God he was wiry because it did make it hard to determine that he was hiding there. Brett was cognizant and ate little so he could keep using this spot.
When his Father failed in locating Brett, it was usually due to the spirits of a bottle. On certain hunts Ted would tip over in a heap somewhere. That was a good thing, for when he awoke he often forgot that he had been out to get the boy or Vera.
Sometimes Ted would cart around a bottle with him on his missions to find Brett. This practice would bring out increased frustration and truncated his ability at tracking his Son down. There were times when Vera would be hit under suspicion of hiding Brett from penance due.
High-volume and agitated swearing was a normal circumstance, even when there was apparently nothing wrong.
The beacon that shone impending safety was the activation of Ted's stuttering, which meant he would soon be passing out. Brett had been born into this knowledge, and knew this was also his Dad's most violent time. When his words began to skip and stumble it was time for them to run and hide fast.
Vera would even display this sport of hiding, scurrying to the basement and hiding in the darkness after unscrewing a few light bulbs on the way.
The stuttering went on for about twenty minutes, which halted only when he finally toppled over something. On one night, Ted passed out sitting on the toilet. When Dad was quiet, it was safe to come out.
At night, after Ted had passed out, the boy would head down stairs to the living room. He would silently sit on the couch next to his Mother. They would never talk, would not look at each other. They were only drawn together by that fear and hate that was always in the air. It was their only Mother-Son relationship.
There were times when Ted would awake from one of his stupors fuelled by the memory of what it was that had angered him and this would catch the boy and Vera off guard.
Brett was in a seemingly constant state of cuts and bruises as well as mental anguish. The silver studs that embellished Ted's beloved black leather belt had created out a well-worn pattern on the child's rear and lower back.

'Brett! Is that you I can hear fucking breathing!’ he saw his Dad's feet and belt tip enter into his bedroom. Ted flung the closet door open, clanging the spare hangers together. 'Fuck...,' He muttered.
Brett remained calm, slowed his breathing, and listened for his Father's next action. He tried to catch a glimpse of the tip of the leather belt or his Dad's white feet. The bear was damp from the clamminess of his hands.
Ted backed away from the closet and settled in the middle of his Son's room. 'Brett you ugly little bastard...yer gonna getta good taste of the belt when I find yer ass. Ya think yer so fuckin smart, don't ya?’ He spoke loud enough to be heard out of the room, but it was as if he knew Brett was in there with him.
Ted added an edge to his words by slashing the belt out and hitting something a top of Brett's bookcase. Shards of the object clattered about the floor.
It was the model Brett had just finished, a tall ship. A shard from the hull came to rest just under the hem of the bedding, right near the boy's face.
Brett realized what it was his Father had destroyed on him. The ship, and the time and care taken to build it, were mute points. It had been an avenue of escape for Brett and that was all it had represented. The boy didn't really like models and didn't like boats.
It had not surprised him too much that Ted had demolished one of his things. Most of his toys and possessions didn't last very long if his Dad thought he might like them. It was his way of teaching the child a lesson.
Brett had long abstained from asking for toys, and if he got any, he made sure not to look too pleased with what he got. This was the lesson he had learned by the age of five. He didn't like the position of having prized possessions taken hostage or wrecked on him. Brett knew how to separate material objects from the risk of personal pain that can be attached to them.
The boy diverted his stare from the broken plastic piece to the bottom of the box spring. He knew that was going to be his ship's ultimate destiny anyway. Destiny...he also knew of his own, maybe not on this night, but there would be many evenings that would come where he would get a strapping for something.
Brett began to think of something other than being quiet and hiding. Wouldn't it be nice if Dad just died. It would be nice, Mom never beats me. But Mommy loves Daddy, and that would make her sad. She'd blame me if he died...she would.
Remorse and frustration caused tears to well up in his eyes. He knew he was trapped. Not only was he trapped under the bed but also he was trapped in this life. Moreover, it was his entire fault for being such a bad boy. From his destiny, he had no escape.
'Brett!’.