Mania

I believe that anybody could go manic. At least I know I could, if I sit in the shower and stare at a razor for long enough, impulse might just lead me to cutting myself. Not necessarily because I'm in pain but out of curiosity. The human mind craves stimuli, if you put a man in an empty room with a knife for long enough he might just cut himself. You would think that it's crazy to do something as awful as that but you might just do the same in his situation. I guess the difference between sanity and insanity is circumstance. Or maybe it's more than that because some people kill for sport. Well not all murderers but some don't really have a reason to kill, so I wonder why. Is it because they have no control over their impulses and no sense of order nor consequence or maybe it's a dark craving. Does it feel good to see others in pain or is it an emotional impulse? How does it feel to kill, does the aftermath get to you and if you don't get caught do you still live with that regret? If no one knew what death was would there be murder? There are so many things to think about while you're still alive.

"Bernard school." I was awakened by the feeling of my brother, Felix, fiddling with my hair.

Félix is 14 now, he is going into the ninth grade, it'll be exciting for him. His first year of high school. Like the beginning of his rode to independence

He twisted my locks in between his index finger and thumb, "It's gotten really long."

I scuffed up his hair, which was, contrary to mine, a blonde forest of coordinated curls. Whereas my hair is a dark forest of uncoordinated strands. It's grown down to my shoulders, since I haven't found the time for a haircut this summer.

I've been working a job at the nearby car repair shop. Changing tires, broken windows, engine parts and such. It's kind of draining having to work so much at a time I shouldn't even be working. I wish I could live the summer cliche of going to the beach with friends and living near jersey shore. Maybe going to an amusement park or a carnival but there is nothing like that where we live in Texas. Even if there was I would exactly have the friends to go with. The only cliche I'm able to manage is being a high school outcast. I will admit it is my own fault for not putting myself out there like my mom would say. I really miss our mom.

Our parents passed when I was around seven and Felix was five. Actually only my mom is dead, my dad, well he is the one that killed her. He got a life sentence, in New Mexico. That's where we used to live but we ended up having to move. Anyways It's easier saying that they both passed away.

I remember it clear as the day in my head.

January, 7 1994

9:13

It was a calm night just like any other. Frank( my father) hadn't been home In around 3 months. We had gotten used to not having him around though. My mother, Diane, had just gotten a job at a local shop that sold tennis rackets and it was making steady payment. She had just gotten back on her feet again.

I could tell she had a deep resentment towards my father because whenever I mentioned his name she would hush me, or tell me not to speak of him and that I should be expecting him home anytime soon. Little did she know how far from the truth that was.

Mom was tucking us into bed in the living room and reading The Ugly Ducklingwhich was Felixe's favorite bedtime story. It was warm underneath the covers and me and Felix were nuzzled up close to mom like newborn puppies.

"His own image; no longer a dark, gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan…" a thumping at the door interrupted our sound eutopia.

"The milkman at this hour…"( the milkman was the only person that ever came knocking at the door) she paused in the midst of her reading and mumbled to herself, "just a second boys I'll be right back."

She got out of the bed and ambled towards the door. After poking her eye through the peephole of the door her composure went from tranquil to an anxious vexation.

An exasperated and provokingly familiar voice began to yell at our front door, violently shaking the doorknob.

The clacking sound of the door hinge beginning to break off, brought a panicky feeling upon me and my brother.

"Diane, give me the kids!" I heard the sound of a husky muffled yell from my father whom I hadn't seen in months.

"Bernard, take your brother into my bedroom…", she whispered in a low voice with a panic-stricken expression.

"But, I thought we weren't allowed in there…."

"Quickly!", she almost yelled, looking as if she was on the verge of tears. I could tell the situation from her petrified exposure, it was all too familiar. Another one of my alcoholic fathers livid rampages. Suddenly, the memories, bruises, broken beer bottle cuts, and dreadful screaming came flooding back. I could almost feel his hands around my throat.

I almost thought we could live a normal life again.

I grabbed Felix's small hand and led him out of the bed creeping into my mother's room, which normally we wouldn't be allowed into. I mouthed the words 'I love you' to my mother and she reciprocated my actions before closing the door behind us. My father had always been quite the avid drinker and he gets aggressively violent when he's under the influence. Considering his bulky physique compared to my mother's small sticklike frame, there is a slim chance of her escape from the monster that was my inebriated father.

The room was oddly humid. It felt like a paradoxical universe that was filled with woman's underwear and a small built in bed. I hid in the closet, which was a disheveled mess of mismatched shoes. I held onto Felix, who seemed to be sweating profusely.

He looked up at me with his large frightened blue eyes. He looked like a Margaret Keane painting.

"Are we gonna be ok?", he whispered in a shaky voice.

The question was menacing, I wanted to tell him we'd be fine but I didn't know what would happen.

" I…"I could feel my breath getting shaky, "..I hope so," I could feel a trail of tears begin to fall down my face.

"I love you, Felix." I whispered into his heart holding onto him for dear life.

In that moment I swore to myself I wouldn't let a single soul hurt him. He's the only one I had left.

I noticed my mom's iPhone lying on the floor and picked it up dialing the emergency number. In the midst of the ringing, there was a collapse, the hinges on the front door had broken.

"Where are the kids Diane?" The muffled yells were protruding through the thin walls.

"Let's just talk, Frank, come one you've had too much to drink." I could imagine my mother as a small white rabbit and my father as a hungry wolf. I knew what was bound to happen but the mere thought of it made my skin crawl.

"911, whats your emergency." The telephone operator had picked up.

"There is��� an intruder in my home… could you please send help." My voice quivered as I spoke into the telephone.

"Yes, of course. Could you give me the address?" The woman had a low hushed tone.

"Uh… I'm not sure." The muffled shouts between my parents began to cloud my brain.

"That's fine, just stay on the line and I'll retrace the call." I stayed on the line, but I could help but hear the daunting memories of my drunk father. I set the phone down at my toes and kept ahold of Felix.

"There our kids Diane, not just yours!" His voice grew louder.

"Please, Frank, don…" the thud of my mother's body hitting the ground sunk my heart to my toes.

"Frank!" I heard a loud screech from Diane's once gentle voice and it felt like a stab to the gut.

No matter how hard I tried to block out the sound of my mother's tumultuous sporadic screeches of anguish. All I could do was picture the large wolf rabidly attacking the pure white rabbit, ripping her convulsing body apart with his sharp teeth till she was nothing but a pool of flesh.

Her screams had gone silent and my brother's tremulous body had become sodden in a cold sweat.

"Sir, sir!" I heard the operator and picked up the phone.

"He killed her…. My mom...are they gonna get here, have to get here quick." I sobbed into the phone.

"Yes, they should be there now." I heard the loud sound of the police sirens blaring through the walls but it was too late. She was dead, if she wasn't dead she'd have been screaming. She was always screaming, it hurt but it meant she wasn't dead. She wasn't screaming.

I suddenly remembered the night my dad left the house. I couldn't sleep because I heard my dad yelling at my mom.

'I'll kill you, I swear your such a fucking klutz!', they were arguing about money I think.

I never thought he would do it, I thought it was over. That maybe we could live in peace but he did it, he really killed her. I couldn't do anything about it.

"I can't believe you bugs called the cops on me, I'll find you." A sweaty panic deluged my body as I heard the bedroom door open.

The thumping of his heavy boots clambering through the room aimlessly, caused my body to grow tense. His feet began to linger in front of the closet door and all I could see was the shadow of the wolf who had just ripped the rabbit to shreds.

"I know you're in there Bernard, come on out now daddy wants to talk to you."

I could hear myself begin to whimper, "Did you kill her?"

He started to laugh maniacally and pressed his hand on the closet door.

"What do you think, sweetheart?" He slid a bloody knife under the door.

The door of the bedroom swung open with a yellow light, "This is the authorities, you are under arrest for manslaughter and breaking entering!"

The closet door was slammed completely shut by my father's body being out into handcuffs. The knife slid under my toes and I could feel my mother warm blood underneath my foot and it made my body squirm. She was really dead.

"I swear you, devil child, you'lll fucking pay for this!" I could hear the sound of my father continuing to guffaw, yell, and cuss my name.

"It's your fault she died, you pussy!", his manic laughing had festered into a scream, "You couldn't even save her!"

Was it my fault?