I just want him to leave me alone.
-
For twelve years, he was my everything for better or worse.
Life would be easy if everyone was truthful. If they told you the awful places that their minds went. Bring it into the light, before anything came to life from their thoughts and someone got hurt. Maybe they could be helped.
Maybe.
Monsters must hide, but they fear solitude.
They lure you in and keep you close, because the thought of being alone with their wickedness is hell.
Ryan deserves hell.
Now, I do too.
-
When the first girl went missing from the high school, sad to say but no one thought much about it. Maybe she got lost. Maybe somebody came up from the city and grabbed her.
No one thought anybody in town would do anything to that poor girl. Our town wasn’t like that.
Over the course of a year, we lost four girls, but two of them were thought to have just run away.
It wasn’t until one of the kids from the elementary school went missing that everyone came to their senses and realized that we had a monster in our town who preyed on children.
-
You don’t want to suspect someone you love. It’s like there’s something in your brain that won’t allow you to even think that, even when they’ve been abusive towards you. They might hit you, but they’d never murder someone.
For the first ten years, Ryan was perfect, but something happened after that, and he started hurting me. It never let up.
He was a different person.
My Ryan was gone, and all I was left with was an angry devil that would snap at the slightest thing.
A devil that looked like an angel to everyone else.
He knew what he was doing; he never left a bruise where anyone could see.
I didn’t have anyone to go to. Embarrassment probably. I had no idea what I would say to people. I honestly didn’t even think anyone would believe me. He was perfect; everybody thought so. Everybody loved him.
I guess in my own way, even with my suspicions, I wanted to believe that he wasn’t capable of hurting anyone other than me.
-
After they found pieces of a second little boy from the elementary school, I began to suspect Ryan. He would come and go from the house as he pleased for over a year without telling me where he was going. Sometimes he would come home in different clothes than he left in. It only took one time of me asking him where he was going to make sure that I never asked again.
I had thought for a while that he was leaving the house after he thought I was asleep. I didn’t confront him because I was too afraid to.
-
After they found what was left of that boy though, I knew that I had an obligation to find out whether he was responsible or not.
He had been drinking that night after they found the boy. He came home with a couple of bottles that he had stolen from the liquor store. He was furious and after he was done drinking those bottles, he even finished off my cooking sherry. He had been especially hateful to me and he tore into me like he never had before.
For the first time, he had struck me in the face.
He used a rolling pin.
He called me things that no one should ever call a woman.
After he passed out on the floor in the kitchen, I started to go through his things.
I had to know.
After a while, I found a small box behind his computer. Inside I found homemade missing signs of all the kids. There were large black X’s over their eyes.
It was him. It was my Ryan.
I was sick to my stomach. I felt disgust and shame and an anger at myself that I should have been able to stop this from ever happening. Maybe if I had said something when all the abuse started, none of it would have ever happened.
I didn’t hear him walk up behind me.
“Looks like everyone is finding my things today.” The words were slurred. When I turned, I didn’t even recognize him. He was pale and haggard, like whatever was inside of him was finally showing itself physically. He reeked of vomit and booze and he was holding the rolling pin. His eyes were black. He was going to kill me. “Oh, look at that. She’s gone and pissed herself.”
“Ryan… Ryan please…”
“I’m really glad you found those… now I have an excuse to do what I’ve always wanted to do…”
He staggered toward me on wobbly legs and started swinging the rolling pin. Just before he reached me, he tripped and fell face first to the floor.
I grabbed the rolling pin and hit him on the back of the head.
-
In spite of all the feelings I had, I couldn’t bear the thought of him in a cage for the rest of his life. I wanted to punish him myself.
I’m not going to go into detail about what I did to him. I will say he woke up in an uncomfortable place, and I said a few things to him before I went to work with a hammer and a hacksaw.
I wasn’t in my right mind. I’m still not.
-
I got rid of what was left of him. I buried it far away from our home.
When I got back to the house a few hours later, he was already there waiting for me.
-
He was standing in the kitchen calling to me. His body was a ruin and his flesh looked like it had been in the ground for weeks. When he moved, I could hear all of those broken bones grinding together.
I passed out on the kitchen floor where he had been just a few hours before.
-
I’m losing my mind.
What I suffer from now is almost worse than the physical abuse.
I refuse to look at him in the face even though he follows me everywhere I go. Those black eyes are always on me. No one can see him, but he’s there.
No one can hear him, but he’s always screaming the same thing over and over.
Commanding me to do something I just can’t do.
He’s standing in the corner right now as I’m writing this.
It’s my punishment I think.
Not just for the awful things that I did to him, but for the peace I haven’t given to those families by telling them what happened to their children.
I know it’s selfish, but I just can’t bear the thought of what people would think of me.
Monsters must hide, but they fear solitude.
The thought of being alone with this wickedness is hell.
I guess that’s why I’m writing this. None of you know who the hell I am, and none of you ever will. I can tell the truth here. It’s not much, but it’s something of a confession.
Maybe when other people read this, I may be free.
Maybe I won’t have to see the ragged corpse of my monstrous twelve year old son any longer.
Maybe I’ll no longer have to hear him say, “Look at me, Mom!”