Pathetic
By
Ron Frater
The blood slowly formed into a droplet at the edge of the fresh wound. It clung to its host’s flesh, as might a child cling to its mother when being forcibly taken away by social services. But just as the child could not resist being removed from its mother, the droplet could not resist the effects of gravity, and it slowly released its grip.
It merged into the red, sticky pool which had been formed by the initial cascade that had flowed when the wound was inflicted. The sharp knife had severed the flesh with ease, as if it was cutting through tissue paper.
Another droplet began to form at the edge of the wound. How many more would there be before the body was exhausted of its life-bearing liquid?
As he pondered the question, his mind filled with others. Why did he do it? Why did he pick up the knife? Why didn’t he stop? It went against everything he considered morally right, after all. But he’d felt there was no alternative. He’d been forced to do it, so he had no choice – or at least that’s what he’d told himself. But he knew he was weak. Weak of body and weak of mind. He’d been told so, often enough.
Did what he’d done change that? Did inflicting the wound mean he wasn’t weak? Was it brave? Did it show strength?
But if he knew it was wrong and yet done it anyway, how could that show strength? How could that be ‘having guts’?
Or did it confirm the words that had been beaten into him over the years?
“You’re a weak, pathetic excuse for a human being.”
Most likely.
No, not ‘most likely’…
Yes.
Yes, he was weak.
Yes, he was pathetic.
How could he not be? He’d never heard otherwise.
He’d been told, “For once in your life, man up, you little snowflake. Just bloody well do it.”
He hated the person who had said those words. The person who for so long had told him he was weak. The person who revelled in telling him he was pathetic. The person who had never hesitated to share these opinions with anyone they encountered, and had done so with a perverse relish.
The newly formed droplet dripped into the red, sticky pool, with a faint ‘plip’. The noise was easily heard, given the absence of any other sound, and was quickly followed by another, though this time almost imperceptibly, as the tear fell from his cheek and landed in the pool.
“Only the weak cry. You’re pathetic.”
He heard the words as if they’d just been spoken aloud. He looked up, expecting to see the speaker – the person he hated so much – but there was no one there. He should be glad of that. He didn’t need to hear that voice ever again.
But, as he sat by the red, sticky pool, he didn’t feel glad. He realised that he suddenly felt numb. He was defeated. What was done was done, and couldn’t be undone.
The knife slipped from his hand. He hadn’t even realised he’d still been holding it, yet for some reason he’d clenched his fingers around it as if it was his most precious possession.
As he fell sideways, he vaguely heard the voice again.
“Well, miracle of miracles, you’ve actually done it.”
He hadn’t heard her enter the room, and hadn’t realised the voice wasn’t simply in his subconscious.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, damn it!”
He raised his head, barely able to focus on what was before him, yet still unable to disobey any directive issued by the woman.
She saw the wetness on his cheek, and the fresh tear that had welled in his one remaining eye.
“Aw, diddums, upset you, did it? Bloody cry-baby. You’re pathetic. Told you to man up, I did. Can’t believe you actually picked up the knife and used it. Or maybe you didn’t. Some kind of accident, was it?”
She laughed. A derisive laugh, filled with disdain and malevolence.
He didn’t answer.
“Pathetic. You’re a weak, pathetic excuse for a human being. Just like your damn father. That waste of space was born pathetic, lived pathetic, and now he’s died pathetic.”
He stared at her. She glanced at the body he had fallen against. The body that lay in the red, sticky pool. The body that no longer dripped blood from the open wound.
“Yeah, that’s right. He’s dead. That’s why I sent you in here to slaughter that damn pet pig of yours. That piece of meat you’re lying on. Got you out of the way so your worthless father could top himself. Except the useless prick couldn’t even do that properly. Changed his bloody mind, so I had to do it for him. Stuck him with the carving knife. Made it look like he did it himself, mind. So, only you and me know the truth, and you’ll keep your pathetic cry-baby mouth shut if you know what’s good for you. Remember what happened last time you disobeyed me?”
The boy unconsciously placed his hand over the empty socket that had previously housed his left eye.
“Yeah, that’s right. Bet you don’t fancy me taking the other one out, do you?” Again, the laugh.
“Now, get off that hunk of meat and clean this mess up. That carcass needs butchering. And when you’ve finished in here, there’s another carcass that needs sorting out. You can ring the cops and tell them you found him like that after you’d done the pig. You can tell them I left to go to the grazing block after lunch, so I’ve been out all afternoon. Understand?”
The boy didn’t answer. He dropped his gaze to the ground.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!!” Spittle flew from her mouth as she shot the words at her son, like a spitting cobra sprays its venom. Her eyes glowered with unmistakable hatred.
“Get up!!”
The boy slowly pushed himself off the body of the pig, still looking at the ground. Then, before she had realised what was happening, with a sudden burst of speed he scooped the knife up from the floor and charged straight into her midriff.
The hatred in her eyes was instantly replaced by shock and disbelief, as the blade pierced her abdomen. The boy held the knife in place, the guard of the hilt firmly against the thin shirt that covered her stomach, looking into her eyes as he did so. She looked down at him, and saw the flash across his one eye as he clearly registered that what he’d just done would have unthinkable repercussions. Her eyes darkened again and she laughed. That same malevolent, disdainful laugh.
She put her hands around the boy’s throat and squeezed. He released his grip on the knife and tried to pull her hands away from his throat, but even with a knife in her gut, she was too strong for a physically immature and poorly muscled twelve-year-old boy. He clawed at her arms with his fingernails, ripping through her skin, but still she squeezed.
“Pathetic. Just like your father. Born pathetic, lived pathetic, and now you’re going to die pathetic, too. Good bloody riddance, the pair of you. This is going to be even better than sticking your father. Or what I did to your brother. Yeah, that’s right, you had a brother. Had an unfortunate accident before you were born. At least that’s what the cops decided. He was weak, too, so I had to deal to him. A mercy killing, really. Say hello to him in Hell for me.”
As the life was choked out of the boy, his struggles stopped. His fingers slipped away from her arms, knowing his fate was decided at the hands of this woman who was meant to have nurtured and cared for him.
As his right hand dropped, it brushed something hard. The knife – still lodged in her stomach. With the fraction of strength he had remaining, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt and twisted it.
The shriek that came from her mouth was like nothing he’d ever heard before. She dropped her hands from his throat and grabbed at the source of the agony, but in releasing her grip on the boy, he had fallen backwards, pulling the knife out of her in the process.
Blood from the now unplugged laceration poured through her fingers. But the hatred still burned in her. She knew she was likely about to bleed to death, but she would end his life first. She looked up in time to see the point of the blade thrusting towards, then into, her left eye.
Her scream drowned out the boy’s words, which were spoken with a remarkable calmness.
“That’s for what you did to me.”
She reeled backwards, tripping and falling on her back. As she fell, he pulled the knife from her eye, then bent down, and stabbed her in the thigh.
“That’s for what you did to Dad.”
He quickly pulled the knife out and stabbed up between her legs, eliciting another horrific scream.
“That’s for what you did to my brother.”
He knelt over her torso and placed the knife across her throat.
“And this is for what you made me do to Piggy.”
In a voice strained and weak, yet urgent, she pleaded, “No, son, no! I love you! Everything I did was because I love you! I’m your mother. You know you can’t do this to me. I love you, son! Help me, please. Help me, my darling boy.”
She saw the brief flicker in his eye, as her words had clearly given him pause. Even in the absolute agony of her deadly injuries, the corners of her mouth began to turn up into that malicious grin which was the prelude to her sadistic laugh.
She didn’t register his final word, as he sliced the knife across her throat.
“Pathetic.”
Ron Frater is from a small town in the picturesque beauty that is New Zealand’s South Island, where he lives with his partner, an excess of dogs, and a self-opinionated parrot. He writes across a range of genres, including crime, suspense, humor and horror.
By
Ron Frater
The blood slowly formed into a droplet at the edge of the fresh wound. It clung to its host’s flesh, as might a child cling to its mother when being forcibly taken away by social services. But just as the child could not resist being removed from its mother, the droplet could not resist the effects of gravity, and it slowly released its grip.
It merged into the red, sticky pool which had been formed by the initial cascade that had flowed when the wound was inflicted. The sharp knife had severed the flesh with ease, as if it was cutting through tissue paper.
Another droplet began to form at the edge of the wound. How many more would there be before the body was exhausted of its life-bearing liquid?
As he pondered the question, his mind filled with others. Why did he do it? Why did he pick up the knife? Why didn’t he stop? It went against everything he considered morally right, after all. But he’d felt there was no alternative. He’d been forced to do it, so he had no choice – or at least that’s what he’d told himself. But he knew he was weak. Weak of body and weak of mind. He’d been told so, often enough.
Did what he’d done change that? Did inflicting the wound mean he wasn’t weak? Was it brave? Did it show strength?
But if he knew it was wrong and yet done it anyway, how could that show strength? How could that be ‘having guts’?
Or did it confirm the words that had been beaten into him over the years?
“You’re a weak, pathetic excuse for a human being.”
Most likely.
No, not ‘most likely’…
Yes.
Yes, he was weak.
Yes, he was pathetic.
How could he not be? He’d never heard otherwise.
He’d been told, “For once in your life, man up, you little snowflake. Just bloody well do it.”
He hated the person who had said those words. The person who for so long had told him he was weak. The person who revelled in telling him he was pathetic. The person who had never hesitated to share these opinions with anyone they encountered, and had done so with a perverse relish.
The newly formed droplet dripped into the red, sticky pool, with a faint ‘plip’. The noise was easily heard, given the absence of any other sound, and was quickly followed by another, though this time almost imperceptibly, as the tear fell from his cheek and landed in the pool.
“Only the weak cry. You’re pathetic.”
He heard the words as if they’d just been spoken aloud. He looked up, expecting to see the speaker – the person he hated so much – but there was no one there. He should be glad of that. He didn’t need to hear that voice ever again.
But, as he sat by the red, sticky pool, he didn’t feel glad. He realised that he suddenly felt numb. He was defeated. What was done was done, and couldn’t be undone.
The knife slipped from his hand. He hadn’t even realised he’d still been holding it, yet for some reason he’d clenched his fingers around it as if it was his most precious possession.
As he fell sideways, he vaguely heard the voice again.
“Well, miracle of miracles, you’ve actually done it.”
He hadn’t heard her enter the room, and hadn’t realised the voice wasn’t simply in his subconscious.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, damn it!”
He raised his head, barely able to focus on what was before him, yet still unable to disobey any directive issued by the woman.
She saw the wetness on his cheek, and the fresh tear that had welled in his one remaining eye.
“Aw, diddums, upset you, did it? Bloody cry-baby. You’re pathetic. Told you to man up, I did. Can’t believe you actually picked up the knife and used it. Or maybe you didn’t. Some kind of accident, was it?”
She laughed. A derisive laugh, filled with disdain and malevolence.
He didn’t answer.
“Pathetic. You’re a weak, pathetic excuse for a human being. Just like your damn father. That waste of space was born pathetic, lived pathetic, and now he’s died pathetic.”
He stared at her. She glanced at the body he had fallen against. The body that lay in the red, sticky pool. The body that no longer dripped blood from the open wound.
“Yeah, that’s right. He’s dead. That’s why I sent you in here to slaughter that damn pet pig of yours. That piece of meat you’re lying on. Got you out of the way so your worthless father could top himself. Except the useless prick couldn’t even do that properly. Changed his bloody mind, so I had to do it for him. Stuck him with the carving knife. Made it look like he did it himself, mind. So, only you and me know the truth, and you’ll keep your pathetic cry-baby mouth shut if you know what’s good for you. Remember what happened last time you disobeyed me?”
The boy unconsciously placed his hand over the empty socket that had previously housed his left eye.
“Yeah, that’s right. Bet you don’t fancy me taking the other one out, do you?” Again, the laugh.
“Now, get off that hunk of meat and clean this mess up. That carcass needs butchering. And when you’ve finished in here, there’s another carcass that needs sorting out. You can ring the cops and tell them you found him like that after you’d done the pig. You can tell them I left to go to the grazing block after lunch, so I’ve been out all afternoon. Understand?”
The boy didn’t answer. He dropped his gaze to the ground.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!!” Spittle flew from her mouth as she shot the words at her son, like a spitting cobra sprays its venom. Her eyes glowered with unmistakable hatred.
“Get up!!”
The boy slowly pushed himself off the body of the pig, still looking at the ground. Then, before she had realised what was happening, with a sudden burst of speed he scooped the knife up from the floor and charged straight into her midriff.
The hatred in her eyes was instantly replaced by shock and disbelief, as the blade pierced her abdomen. The boy held the knife in place, the guard of the hilt firmly against the thin shirt that covered her stomach, looking into her eyes as he did so. She looked down at him, and saw the flash across his one eye as he clearly registered that what he’d just done would have unthinkable repercussions. Her eyes darkened again and she laughed. That same malevolent, disdainful laugh.
She put her hands around the boy’s throat and squeezed. He released his grip on the knife and tried to pull her hands away from his throat, but even with a knife in her gut, she was too strong for a physically immature and poorly muscled twelve-year-old boy. He clawed at her arms with his fingernails, ripping through her skin, but still she squeezed.
“Pathetic. Just like your father. Born pathetic, lived pathetic, and now you’re going to die pathetic, too. Good bloody riddance, the pair of you. This is going to be even better than sticking your father. Or what I did to your brother. Yeah, that’s right, you had a brother. Had an unfortunate accident before you were born. At least that’s what the cops decided. He was weak, too, so I had to deal to him. A mercy killing, really. Say hello to him in Hell for me.”
As the life was choked out of the boy, his struggles stopped. His fingers slipped away from her arms, knowing his fate was decided at the hands of this woman who was meant to have nurtured and cared for him.
As his right hand dropped, it brushed something hard. The knife – still lodged in her stomach. With the fraction of strength he had remaining, he wrapped his fingers around the hilt and twisted it.
The shriek that came from her mouth was like nothing he’d ever heard before. She dropped her hands from his throat and grabbed at the source of the agony, but in releasing her grip on the boy, he had fallen backwards, pulling the knife out of her in the process.
Blood from the now unplugged laceration poured through her fingers. But the hatred still burned in her. She knew she was likely about to bleed to death, but she would end his life first. She looked up in time to see the point of the blade thrusting towards, then into, her left eye.
Her scream drowned out the boy’s words, which were spoken with a remarkable calmness.
“That’s for what you did to me.”
She reeled backwards, tripping and falling on her back. As she fell, he pulled the knife from her eye, then bent down, and stabbed her in the thigh.
“That’s for what you did to Dad.”
He quickly pulled the knife out and stabbed up between her legs, eliciting another horrific scream.
“That’s for what you did to my brother.”
He knelt over her torso and placed the knife across her throat.
“And this is for what you made me do to Piggy.”
In a voice strained and weak, yet urgent, she pleaded, “No, son, no! I love you! Everything I did was because I love you! I’m your mother. You know you can’t do this to me. I love you, son! Help me, please. Help me, my darling boy.”
She saw the brief flicker in his eye, as her words had clearly given him pause. Even in the absolute agony of her deadly injuries, the corners of her mouth began to turn up into that malicious grin which was the prelude to her sadistic laugh.
She didn’t register his final word, as he sliced the knife across her throat.
“Pathetic.”
Ron Frater is from a small town in the picturesque beauty that is New Zealand’s South Island, where he lives with his partner, an excess of dogs, and a self-opinionated parrot. He writes across a range of genres, including crime, suspense, humor and horror.
