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Progress Report

E. A. Danner

    Early afternoon, September 3^rd, in the principal’s office of a small town middle school deep in southeast Mississippi:

    Dear Harvey J.,
    You’d think after writing so many of these, it’d come naturally. I’d sit down on the backside of the principal’s desk for an hour and spill out all these lies about how I’m sorry for picking on you, about how I’m sorry for being mean to you, but no. I’m not used to them. I guess there are just some things that you never get used to. Everyone knows I’m going to do it again, so why waste my time with this lame bull? Why don’t I just write what I’m actually thinking, what I really feel when I hit you in the mouth day in and day out?
    People believe that it’s the satisfaction, that I enjoy doing it, because seeing you in pain makes me feel good. Then there’s the bogus idea that I chose you because I’m jealous of you. You’ll understand why this isn’t true either. Of course, there’s the idea that I have to be in charge of everything. That I’m mean to show my dominance. Honestly, the truth is: all of these ideas are dumb. None of them even come close to the real reason. What do I, Bernard Lester, feel when I hit you? Relief. That’s what I feel.
    I guess just saying it doesn’t make much sense. Why would I get any relief out of causing someone pain? Plus, why would I pick on you of all people? I guess the best idea would be to start with the easiest question: Why you? When I think about it, I have a whole list of reasons why I pick on you over other kids. Sure, there are other kids who would be easier and wouldn’t tell anyone, but it just wouldn’t be the same. You have to really understand yourself to know what I mean.
    How do I explain you, to you? I can’t think of a decent place to start this, so I’ll just go with whatever comes to mind. You’re a year older than me, an eighth grader, a year away from getting out of middle school and into high school. I guess all this stuff would make it easy for someone to think I’m jealous.
    Your dad is a lawyer or something, and your mom doesn’t do anything except sit around the house, drink wine, and gossip with the other housewives on the block. She almost sounds like my mom...almost. Obviously, your family has a lot of money, which you get to show off every day at school. You wear the most expensive designer clothes, and was the first person in his grade to get a phone. You’re practically worshiped by everyone, teachers and students alike. This wouldn’t be such a big deal, if you didn’t know that you had such a presence at the school, but that’s the problem. You know exactly how much everyone loves and adores you for your daddy’s money. You use it at every possible moment.
    I swear you could get away with whatever you wanted to. You could probably murder another student and get off scot-free. I couldn’t chew a stick of gum without getting slapped with a detention slip and a call to my parents. That’s where the real punishment would be waiting for me, and, believe me, it’s a lot more frightening than anything the school could have in store for me.
    Anyways, Harvey J., you know exactly who you are, and you make sure that all the students are aware of who you are too. None of the teachers, nor the principal realize this, but I’m not the only “bully” that stalks the halls of the school. In your own ways, you too are a bully, Harvey J. You have this bad habit of looking down on people who you think are...I guess lower...than you are. Basically, anyone who had the bad luck to be born into a poor family like me gets the eye of disgust and a few degrading words from you any time you’re around.
    That reminds me of something the teachers haven’t figured out yet. You are the only person I pick on. I don’t pick on kids who are “more vulnerable” because they’re easier targets. I pick on you for a reason. I pick on you because out of everyone in the school I could pick on, you give me the greatest sense of relief.
    This was supposed to be an apology letter, but you have more than a few of these already. All with the same bullshit apology and excuse, but you probably won’t get this one after the principal takes a look at it.
    Mr. Evert this is a note for you: you don’t say much, but I feel like you probably get me better than anyone here, but you still punish me. I guess you have to. Everyone has a boss and everyone has to do what their boss says. I suppose that’s why my dad never seems to be able to hold a job, but I guess I better wrap this up. I can hear my mom’s foot tap at the secretaries desk behind me.
    She’s not impatient or anything. Heck she won’t even be mad for a few hours. I guess she ran out of money or something. I’ve drug this on long enough. I’d rather not be in the car when Mom finally does get. I can’t run from her in the car. Hopefully I’ll see you again soon Mr. Evert but not too soon, and a last note to you, my wonderful victim Harvey J.: you’re an asshole and I don’t like you. That’s all. See soon “buddy”.

    Your Friendly Neighborhood Bully,
    Bernard Lester

    Midnight, September 4^rd, at the quiet home of a town drunk and his drug addicted wife. In the back bedroom where the only light was an old black flashlight their twelve year old son writes:

    To Whoever It Might Concern,
    I’m not sure who’s going to read this or if anyone will, but I think I need to write something down before I do...before I do something crazy. I’ll just start at the beginning or what I guess I can call the beginning.
    The last time I wrote was earlier today in Principal Evert’s office. I left that nice little apology note for my good friend at school. I wonder what Principal Evert thought about my style. It definitely wasn’t what he expected. Hell, I didn’t expect it until it was on paper. I didn’t even plan to write this until now, but here I am: pen, paper, and an old broke flashlight putting down these last few thoughts before the light dies.
    I left the letter on Principal Evert’s desk and got out in a hurry. What would’ve been the point of writing all of that stuff if I had to do it over again? My mom was waiting in the lobby. If you didn’t know her you’d mistake her for a prostitute. If the rumors were true she was until she married and I came along. I wouldn’t be surprised if she still did it every now and then for a little drugs or money. I’m not sure, and if my dad knows he doesn’t care. She was wearing her typical “going out” outfit, a white tank-top cut off just above her belly button showing her old dirty piercing. It’s a wonder it hadn’t gotten infected yet. Her shorts were hardly that. They were blue jeans cut off inappropriately high with fray bad enough that you couldn’t quite tell where the pants ended, even the button was long gone. She wore large black heels. I think they’re called Stilettos. The rubber was worn down to the sole. If you looked close, you could see small holes in the dark fabric from too many years of wear and tear. White stretch marks ran across her slightly tanned body. With the exception of a few old bruises and small dots on the inside of her arms I guess she looked alright.
    Her foot tapped rapidly. With the irregular beat it sounded like an old typewriter. The keys slapping the paper with the appropriate letters. Her hands moved all over her body, scratching, like she was covered in bug bites. She tried to hide all the movement, but it didn’t work. I knew what was going on. I think the secretary did too.
    The old secretary tried to give my mom a piece of paper, probably saying I couldn’t come back to school for a few days as punishment, but she was too lost to even notice. She kept searching around the corners of the room like there were hidden cameras watching her every move, more withdraw symptoms. I took the paper and led her out the door by the hand.
    “Oh, Benny...” So far gone that she couldn’t even remember my name. No one called me Benny. “Is school out already? It’s so early...”
    “No Mom, I got in trouble,” I replied.
    “Oh, Billy...what’d you get into trouble for?”
    “I hit another kid, mom.”
    “Oh, baby...you know that’s not nice. It’s not nice to hit people.”
    “I know Mom...I know.”
    I guided her to the car, a ragged, beat up junker older than me with white paint chipped and rusted through, almost beyond recognition. The engine rolled over a few times before it finally roared to life, well...squealed to life. There was a bad belt in the engine that sounded like a pig caught by the ear. On a quiet day, you could hear the thing coming for miles. It’s a wonder the old thing still ran.

    I need to hurry up with this. The light is starting to flicker and I don’t know how much time I’ve got left, so just straight to the point.
    Three hours after I got home my dad showed up. His steps were heavy. He sounded angry. I guessed that the school had already called him at work and told him about me hitting Harvey J. I hoped to god he wouldn’t call me in there, but I don’t have a lot of luck.
    “Get in here boy!” he hollered.
    I left my room and could see him from down the hall. He was standing in front of the door. In his left hand, a bottle of beer, hadn’t been home five minutes and he was already drinking, and in his right was his mean old leather belt. I swear that thing saw more of my backside than his. His blue jeans were stained with grease and oil, and his white shirt had burn marks. The life of tire buster sure was a tough one, but it made him strong, and it made him even meaner still.
    “Oh, baby be gentle with him.” My mom giggled senselessly at nothing. Apparently she had found some forgotten gem somewhere in the house. “He’s just a little thing.” She rolled around on the couch like a kid, like I had done years ago when things weren’t so bad.
    “You, hush up woman!” He returned his attention to me. “I said get in here!”
    I started down the hallway, dragging my feet across the rough floor as I went.
    He kept quiet until I was standing right in front of him. He took a drink of his beer and a few drops fell on my head and face as I looked up at him, but I didn’t move to wipe them away. Sweat collected his on his brow, and there was a pissed look in his eyes. He looked down at me. Hot air blew out his nose like a hot clothes iron, even his breathing sounded mad.
    “Your school called me today boy.” He took another drink. “Said you hit another boy or something or another. You know anything about that?”
    I learned a long time ago it’s better to just stay quiet and agree with anything he says. I’ve never avoided beatings but when I don’t plead or fight, they usually didn’t hurt as much, usually. They still hurt like hell, but a little less pain is a lot better than nothing. I just nodded my head and kept quiet.
    “What’d I tell you about hitting other people? Huh? To not to, that’s what I told you!”
    His hand rose and fell and I felt the sting of the belt even before I even realized I’d been hit. My leg throbbed, tears welled up in my eyes, and a sob caught in my throat, but I choked it down with a shudder. In my 12 years of existence I’ve had hundreds, maybe thousands, of “ass whippings”. You think you’d get used to it after so many. You never get used to it. Each time hurt like I was getting busted for the first time. Maybe my dad was just getting meaner and hitting me harder. Over the past few years he’s been getting worse. He started knocking me around instead of just using a belt. That’s when things really started hurting.
    “Damn it boy! How many times I gotta hit you ‘fore you learn? You don’t hit people!” Another blow from the belt landed on my other thigh. My knees wanted to buckle but I stayed standing. Tears started rolling down my cheeks, but I fought it as best I could. “Maybe I ought to hit you.” My cheek caught the back of his hand. The room started spinning as I stumbled around. I could see stars and half my face felt like it was being stung by a thousand bees over and over again. . “Oh, we ain’t finished yet boy. Come here!” He set his beer down and grabbed the front of my shirt. “How do you like being hit?” The open hand lit up the other side of my face. It wasn’t any softer. “Doesn’t feel good does it?”
    The beating only got worse. Eventually, the belt was completely disregarded and he used nothing but his hands, kicking me the side while I suffered on the floor. Somewhere in the middle of it all my body had enough, and I passed out.
    I’ve so many beating, merciless. Each one seems to be getting worse than the last. I don’t know how many more I can take. I don’t know how long it will be before I can’t pick myself up off the floor. I don’t know how long I have before my body gives up. Not long that’s for sure. Something has to change. Something has to happen. I guess I already know or...knew that even before I started writing. That’s why I started writing. To see if I was crazy or not.
    Earlier I grabbed my dad’s .45 out of the coffee table. He hid it under old papers, but we all knew where it was. He’d pulled it out and threatened us with it on more than a few occasions when he was drunk. It’s a lot heavier than I remember. On one of the good days, my dad taught me how to shoot it, but that was so long ago. The metal is so cold, like ice in my hands. Just looking at it makes me nervous, but I have to wrap this up now. The light is dying as I write. Goodbye.

    Your Friendly Neighborhood Victim,
    Bernard Lester

    Late afternoon September 5^rd, in the cold basement of the police station on the courthouse square, just south of the railroad tracks:

    Entry 褸:
    Three Victims:
    White male, late thirties, approximately 70 inches tall, 210 pounds. Found lying on his back on the right side of a queen-size bed. Fresh offensive bruises occurring on both sets of knuckles. Blood alcohol level at approximately .145 at the time of death. Liver quality consistent with alcoholism and long, consistent consumption of alcoholic beverages. Cause of Death: Three gunshot wounds fired from a .45 caliber handgun. Two penetrating the upper right chest, the remaining bullet fragments lodged in ribs 2-4. The third bullet went through the throat on the right side lacerating the right carotid artery resulting in extensive bleeding. The victim would have lost consciousness within 15-20 seconds and life at 2-4 minutes.
    White female, late thirties, approximately 64 inches tall, 95 pounds. Found lying on her back on the floor to the left of the bed. A pillow had been placed beneath head postmortem. Evidence of healed bruising occurs along the upper body and upper legs. The improperly healed bone fractures of the left humerus, ribs 3 and 4 on the right side and rib 7 on the left, and the right clavicle. Though there is no apparent evidence of past or recent sexual assault, evidence is still consistent with domestic violence and physical spousal abuse. Lack of fatty and muscle tissue combined with weaker internal organs lead to the conclusion of malnourishment. A Toxic Blood Screening showed traces of heroin in the bloodstream. Nasal and oral exam revealed evidence of long-term use of methamphetamine. Further examination of the throat and organs suggested the same theory. Cause of Death: Single gunshot wound fired from a .45 caliber handgun. The bullet entered through the front temporal lobe on the right side and passed through the cranium at a rightward angle and lodged in the wall. The victim died instantly due to the single head injury.
    White adolescent, age 10-13, approximately 60 inches tall, 90 pounds. Found lying face down on the floor at the foot of the bed. Fresh bruising on the face and ribs are consistent with those found on the white male. Evidence of previously healed bruising of similar pattern leads to the theory of parental abuse by one or both parents. No traces of alcohol or illegal narcotics were found in the blood though lung quality is consistent with long-term second-hand smoking. Cause of Death: Single self-inflicted gunshot wound fired from a .45 caliber handgun. The bullet entered the right temple region and passed through and lodged in the wall on the other side. The victim died instantly due to the single head injury.
    Signed,
    Dr. Richard Hoffman

    Early morning, September 10^rd, at the small shop of a tombstone engraver. The first of three orders had just been finished on a generic headstone for a small family from a little Mississippi town:

Benjamin H. Lester
May 11, 1975 – September 4, 2013
Beloved Father and Husband

Amanda N. Lester
January 3, 1976 – September 4, 2013
Beloved Mother and Wife

Bernard H. Lester
December 19, 2000 – September 5, 2013
Cherished Son

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