CW: violence
I spent a year wanting to kill a preacher.
Inside the mother’s body, a child began to grow.
I imagined medieval contraptions. Sharpened metal designed to pierce, cut, and stretch. His fingernails extracted one by one, my laughter at his screams.
The baby grew quick, the mother exhausted and nauseous in those early months.
I moved on to the more practical. I had no gun but my dad had a shotgun and more. A bullet in the leg would fell him. The second would keep him down. I’d stand over him. The barrel of the rifle would split open his forehead. I’d spit into the stream of blood.
A sonogram surprised with the reveal of a tiny penis. The mother regained energy as her belly gained heft.
There was an arrest but he was out on bail. No lawyer nearby would touch him once the name of the victimized family had been leaked. No secrets in small towns. I plotted violence.
The mother was put on bed rest. Monitored. Everything was monitored. Family emotions raw.
Rumors had him at Wegman’s, sitting in the minivan while his wife shopped for groceries. Murderous thoughts became attainable. He’d get out for a stretch. I’d mow him down with my car. The bumper shattering his knees, the asphalt cracking his head, my wheels crushing his sternum. Trolling the parking lot, I visualized the carnage.
The last months were long but less anxious for the mother. The boy was healthy and big.
I didn’t attend the trial. I was afraid. Afraid of my hands reaching for his neck, squeezing him lifeless before other hands could reach me.
Waiting. Waiting for the boy, waiting for the verdict.
Guilty. He was going to jail. Guilty. I imagined the sick things that might happen to a man such as him on the inside, not sure if those thoughts rendered me guilty too.
The child was born. My son. Almost 10 pounds and with much less trouble coming out than hatching. A beginning. Joy.
The second child was my niece. She was 12 when it started. 12. The preacher told her he loved her. Told her those things were okay. Okay in the sanctity of the church. Her childhood ended as my son’s began.
My son is grown and taller than me. I have two more children at home. I watch over them and hope never to want to kill again.
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