Hate and rage festered below
his calm exterior. No bad mouth,
just dark eyes that dripped venom.
His absolute obedience at home was
coerced. He hated his dad’s belt and
he hated his dad. He was nine before
he learned not to cry.
School was an ugly prison. He lashed
out at those who taunted him. By twelve
he was in the behavioral unit, where he
began his apprenticeship. He learned the
trade of being a thief. At fifteen he found
his niche. None of that petty purse snatching
or mugging. He became a burglar of
first report.
His job paid well; he got his own apartment
and the money kept him in meth. By
seventeen he was a journeyman with all
the tools of his trade. He never wanted for
money. He cruised the streets looking for
runaway girls who would trade a bang for
a bed. Life was good.
For several weeks he staked out a local
pawn shop. He waited for the long weekend
to brake in. The noise of breaking glass
awoke the owner sleeping in the back.
He leveled down with his thirty-eight special
and a single shot rang out