Life's Secrets

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. No characters are based on real people, whether living or dead. Any resemblance to a real person is pure coincidence.

DISCLAIMER 2: PLEASE NOTE THAT THIS PIECE IS NOT APPROPRIATE FOR CHILDREN OR THOSE EASILY OFFENDED AS IT CONTAINS EXTREME LANGUAGE AND SOME VIOLENCE

He shut the car door and dialed the number. Put the cell phone to his ear with his left hand and shifted his automatic Audi into reverse with his right. Almost hit another car backing up.

'Son of a...'

'Hello to you too Nicholas.'

'Oh, hi Edna. Sorry, almost rammed an Escalade.'

'I think you would've had the worst of that.'

'Agreed.' He finally succeeded in pulling out of his driveway and shifting the car into drive after much fumbling and muttering.

'You okay over there?'

'Yeah, yeah. I'm driving now.'

'That's why they make headsets, sir nicholas.'

'Anyway...'

'What's up?'

'I'm going to see him.'

'Ah. And how does that make you feel?' she asked. The line. He used it millions of times a day himself. And he even swore by its effectiveness. But that line still got old rather quickly.

'Edna, honestly, I'd rather not be going today. He's been in there five years. We talk about the same thing every time. He likes to tell the story. His life story. And I listen. Then I wonder if I should tell him the truth. But I never do. Because I don't really want to know how he'll react. I know it's selfish, but I just want to get in there, act like I care, and leave.' He knew he could talk to Edna. Not only was she his boss, but she was a friend and mentor.

'Then why are you going? You could call in sick.'

'Well, first, you're my boss and that wouldn't fly.'

'Good point.'

'And second, today may be the day when the light bulb goes on.' He knew she loved to hear that one liner because it was one she used all the time.

'Another good point. So, how long until you arrive?'

'About fifteen minutes,' he responded.

'Good, that gives you time to sit in your car and do some centering. A few breathing exercises. And then go in there with a clear mind. You're there to listen. And to help, if he wants it.'

'I just don't think he does.'

'You may be right. As for telling him the truth, I trust that you'll know the time and place for that. Well, Nicholas, call me after you're done. I've got to run. Ciao.' And she hung up.

He sat in the parking lot. Closed his eyes and centered his mind on his favorite trail. Let the pine's fragrance waft over him. Listened to the creek splash and plunk while the birds whistled and tweeted with delight. Breathed deeply allowing air to slide down the back of his tender throat and fill his burning lungs. Then exhaled a burst of air, returning his bulging stomach to its formerly flattened state.

He entered the prison and made his way to the psychology office. He nodded to a departing colleague and set himself up in the office. After about five minutes, his patient entered.

'What's up, doc?' The prisoner asked. 'How's it hangin'?'

The prisoner was Jerry Harrison. A 23 year old from Graham, WA. A short blond-haired young man, he claimed to have been 'inked' more than 30 times. A mixture of the sacred and profane shone darkly from his pale white skin. Thin but toned, he often boasted about his ability to match blows with the strongest guys in the yard. And he spoke with an obvious lisp, an apparent speech impediment.

'I'm doing well, Jerry, and how are you?' Nicholas asked with his practiced fluctuating monotone?'

'Can't complain. Beat the crap outta some tall ass pussy yesterday. Got some scabs on my knuckles. Wanna see?'

'No thank you, Jerry. Why did you beat him up?'

'He deserved it. He was looking at me weird. So, me and my friends went over there and gave him a little something. Knuckle sandwich, that is.' Jerry laughed to himself. 'So, doc, why are you comin' to see me again? You wanna hear the story again?'

'I am here to talk to and listen to you, Jerry. Would you like to tell the story?'

'Hell yeah! I love this story.' He grinned like a child on Christmas morn. 'There I was. Living in Graham. In the sticks, like my granny used to say. Had parents who "loved" me. A brother who's working as some techno dweeb on computers now. Nice house. Picket fence. American fucking dream. My parents, they're Mormons. I call 'em morons now. Do-gooders. I went to their church for a while. Hooked up with some of the pretty little mormon hos. Played along and did the school thing.

'Then one day, blammo. My moron parents sit me and my brother down and tell us we're adopted. From different people. So, my brother and I aren't related. Thank God for that. He's a stuck up asshole. And I'm not related to my parents either. After all that crap about how I look like that goofy idiot I called dad. Their pipe dream. Well, I wasn't living in that hell hole anymore. I pack up my shit and leave.

'I hitch rides into Seattle. I get a room with some fag on Capitol Hill. Tell him I was 18 and gay and just needed to stay somewhere. He tries to come on to me after a while. I need the room, so I let him think I was interested. But I wasn't. I hate fags. I hate 'em. Kill 'em all. Lesbos too. They don't deserve to live. At least I can get on board with the morons on that one.

'One night, that roommate of mine gets drunk and starts flirting. And he tries to touch me. So I take my fist and bury it in his jaw. Felt so good. Took that pussy down right quick. When he was down, I told him that if he called the cops, I'd kill him. Everything's fine for a few days until there's a knock at the door. Cops. That asshole called 'em anyway. So, in my most innocent voice I tell 'em that it was a domestic dispute. That my roommate cheated on me. And since roomy wasn't there to defend himself, there was nothing they could really do. The joy of deception.

'But that isn't the end of it. Oh no. I know where that faggot likes to dance with all his other fairy friends. Place called the Roadhouse. So, I think of a scheme to get that faggot. I go hawk some of my shit and buy a gun. So easy to get, by the way. And then I walk into the Roadhouse. And I get lucky enough to see his faggot face at the first table. I aim that gun at his dick-sucking mouth and watch the panic in his warm brown eyes. I fire one round. Peal it into his head. Then shoot a few more fags and lezzies for good measure. Four of 'em actually. At the next table. Two lezzies and two faggots. Then I get hit by something from behind. Blacked me out. Just like a fag to come from behind, right?' He chuckled again.

'And you know what? It's been worth every last minute of these past five years.'

After that, Jerry continued rambling. Nothing of consequence. As usual, he refused to answer any of Nicholas's questions. He just laughed and chided.

Nicholas felt the bottled rage bubbling inside his churning stomach. And for a brief moment, he wanted to tell Jerry the truth. Out of spite. To slap him verbally across the face. To shut him up. But he knew it wouldn't work. Jerry wasn't ready for the truth. And it wasn't appropriate or professional to tell him. He swallowed his words and let the session end not with a bang but a whimper.

When he got to his car, he started to do the breathing exercises again. To calm himself if only slightly. But that didn't work. He understood that his rage required a more visceral response. And so, in the silence of his Audi, he screamed to himself, 'You know those people you killed in that bar. Those five people. Two of them were your real parents. They were your fucking birth parents and their partners, you son of a bitch.' And somehow, it helped.