A young man in a strange, green tuxedo with long, green gloves plinks away with a 3DS. From the music, it seems to be a "Pokemon" game. The cry of a Marowak is audible. Dr. Avery Frost, an elderly man with curly, snow-white hair and dark skin sits across from the tall, thin, green-clad younger man.
"No, damnit. Don't miss this time! "Bonemerang" is your fuckin' signature, Aisa! Stupid Sand Attack..."
"Once-ler, please play video games on your own time." He pushes a few more buttons and, a moment or two later, closes the handheld.
"Yeah, sure, fine. Whatever."
"It's just you came here for a reason, and I'm pretty sure playing Pikachus isn't that reason." Once-ler sniggers.
"Pokemon, Avery. They aren't all called Pikachu." He shakes his head. "Honestly, you old farts and that, I swear..." Avery's eyes are half-lidded, a bemused expression on his face.
"You gonna actually talk to me, or what?"
"Yeah, I guess."
"So, what seems to be the problem?"
"There's just something that's been bothering me; eating away at me. I know it shouldn't bother me, but it does."
"And what would that be?"
"July 12, 1990. That was the day I was born...something else happened that day, too. You remember what my dad did for a living, right? Worked for the FBI. Caught murderers. Anyway, a few years before I was born, he caught that one ass-hole. You know? "The Artist"? The guy who made sculptures from people's limbs and painted with their blood and guts and stuff? Caught him. 25 victims. The last victim: dad caught him doing his "work" on the body. It was part of that shit-bird's "magnum opus"-bound a bunch of dead folks together-five of them, but he was gunning for more. Cut and sew their damned faces to make "expressions", and pinned them together with these big-ass spikes; like the kind for rail-road ties. Like those. Wove their rib-cages together somehow. Had their arms up, screwed to one another by the wrist-bones. It was hideous. Nightmare shit."
"Yes, I remember."
"I'm not saying that he didn't deserve to die; he so totally fucking did-I mean, who the hell does that? He was executed the day I was born-didn't find that out until a year or so ago, but that ass-hole died the same day I was born. As I was coming into the world, he was bound down, dying-lethal injection. Well, I was born hours later, since they tend to do that at midnight, but still. It's a weird feeling. That son of a bitch was the second serial killer my dad caught-caught him in 1986."
"Why does it bother you? I mean, it is a strange coincidence, but it's nothing more than that."
"I don't really know, Dr. Frost. It just bothers me a bit. I try not to think about it...but what harm is it going to do? I mean, my birthday is always fucked-I get depressed as hell-but that's another drop in the ol' shit-storm."
"Why do you get depressed on your birthday?"
"Why do I get depressed on Christmas? Why do I get depressed on Father's Day? Why do I get depressed on the anniversary of his death? It's a glaring fucking reminder that he's gone. I mean, he died two weeks before my fourth birthday." He takes his sunglasses off and sits them by his top-hat, sprawling his long limbs over the black leather couch-careful to not kick over the vase on the adjoining table. "It just sucks. I lost him so early."
"Would you like to talk about it?"
"He was a hero. Three serial killers down, because of him. In 1983, he caught that one ass-clown who thought he was a wizard or some bullshit; trying to do some sort of magic spell with the dead people. Called him "The Necromancer". He got put in the loony bin instead of killed like he should have been. When I was still just two years old, he brought down the most prominent serial killer this country has ever seen: 126 known victims. All children, for fuck's sake. All little boys; two to six years old. She'd torture 'em, carving this line from the Bible into their chests. I think she meant it as a taunt: "Canst thou draw out the Leviathan with a hook? Or his tongue with a cord which thou lettest down?" I don't really get it, but it's how she got her nick-name: "The Leviathan". That, and she drown every single one of them." Avery chews on the end of his pen and studies the man he'd known for over twenty years-since he was just a small boy. "Why would someone do something like that? Murder children?"
"She was a psychopath. They don't think the way that people like us think. She saw those children as tools; saw what she was doing as a big puzzle. She was egotistical, thought no one would catch her-that no one was smart enough to figure her out."
"Well, my dad caught her. Stopped her in 1992. She would have kept going; kept killing. She even openly admitted to that. She shocked the whole country-female serial killers are rare. She was a wealthy, well-educated, well-dressed, highly social woman. She sat there in that court room, smirking the entire time. She didn't even give a shit that she was caught and was likely going to be sentenced to death. She confessed right there...the way she talked about the murders," he shudders. "She talked about it like she was talking about going grocery shopping or something; so causal, so relaxed. She even laughed and said: "You'll never find them all." Still smug as a motherfuck, too. She started in 1979, when she was 19. Took the little boy right off the street."
"Yes, I remember it all too well. One of the more disturbing cases I've ever read."
"Well, she was convicted, right? Whole country, pissed as hell-screaming for blood. They got it; she got death. Everyone was touting my dad as a hero. He'd lured the monster out of the closet, and he struck it down...then he started getting sick." He sighs, lying on his back with his gloved arms behind his head. "I was too little, I didn't understand what was happening. He was always in the hospital, and I was always a little afraid. Grandma and Grandpa came down from Massachusetts; first time I'd ever seen them...they could only stay for a month or so, though. Over the next two years, my family started to unravel. Mom started drinking. Hard. Drunk as a monkey's ass all the time. When he started staying in the hospital-when he got too sick to stay at home, she stopped taking care of my brothers and me. We went hungry a lot, and mom's grip on sanity started slipping away...Avery, can I tell you something?"
"You know you can tell me anything. It's what I'm here for."
"It's just...I've never told a soul about this. Scared me so much-I was three. It was during the day. Brett and Chet were at school, and I was home alone with mom. I was just so fucking hungry. I hadn't eaten anything other than a packet of cheese-crackers in the past two days. I went into the dining room; where mom had set up shop-and by set up shop, I mean decided to sit in there and drink all damn day. Drink and smoke while daytime TV chattered mindlessly in the living room." His voice falters a bit, and he shuts his eyes-trying to hold back tears. "I was sitting in there...in dirty clothes since she wouldn't do laundry, and I hadn't bathed in about a week-I was too little to work the tub downstairs without scalding the shit out of myself and mom, of course, was too busy drinking herself into a stupor to help me out. Brett and Chet tried to help, but there's only so much a couple of six year olds can do. They couldn't cook-dad always told us to leave the stove alone so we wouldn't hurt ourselves. Hell, they were having to nab food from other kids since mom wouldn't give 'em lunch money and sure as fuck wasn't sober enough to pack a lunch. They brought me what they could: an apple here, a snack-cake there. They learned to not try to bring me one of those little cartons of milk after the first time. It was hot and spoiled by the time they got home. We were all little dumb-ass kids, so I drank it anyway...and puked my guts up. Anyway, that aside, I thank them. They are ass-bags sometimes, but they were pretty good older brothers to me."
"You're getting off track, Once-ler."
"Sorry, Dr. Frost. Thanks for that; I start down that rabbit hole, and we're gonna be here all day." He shakes himself out of it. "Anyway, she was already good and shit-faced. I got up and went into her own personal bar to ask if she would make me a grilled cheese. I was just so hungry-it hurt." He sighs. "What she did...fuck. She had this revolver, right? An S&W .38 dad bought when Leviathan was still out there-he was afraid for us while he wasn't there. She was sitting there, holding it in her hand. There were so many empty bottles of whisky and empty cigarette packs in there. Her eyes were blood-shot, and she had this twisted, shit-eating grin on her face. She held it to her head and said "Wanna see something, Oncie?" She...she pulled the trigger. Click! She didn't blow her brains out in front of a 3-year-old me, but it was still unnerving. She just dropped the gun and started laughing. I left the room, terrified. I never knew if the gun was loaded at all, but I was scared. After she passed out, while Maury was on-I couldn't tell time and gauged it by what shit-show was on TV-I went in there and took the gun, really quiet, so she wouldn't wake up and-" he catches himself. "I took it outside and buried it in the yard." Avery has noticed his pause and tilts his head to the side.
"So she wouldn't wake up and what?"
"So she wouldn't kick my ass, Dr. Frost." He sits up, looking at the dark marble floor under him. "She started beating the shit out of my brothers and I after dad started staying in the hospital and her drinking got really out of hand. She was always careful to not hit us in the face, or to break bones, but she kicked our asses when she'd get blind drunk and pissed-off." He trembles and wipes his eyes. "I never understood it. She'd beat the hell out of me, and I hadn't done anything wrong-she'd just think I was being too noisy or something, and hit me until I was quiet. She beat the three of us the same, so I know what she did had to hurt just as much for Brett and Chet as it did for me...but they often ended up with more licks than me because they wouldn't quit while they were ahead. She would have me take my shirt off and get down on my hands and knees with my back arched up a little. It had to be arched. She'd take a wet leather belt and beat me across the back with it, sometimes for a set amount of licks, sometimes until she got bored. My back would bleed almost every time, and it hurt so much. Each time I'd scream, she'd add ten more licks. Sometimes, I couldn't sleep for it, and my shirt would bother it. My back still has scars from it." He looks up, quickly snatching his sunglasses and putting them on, hiding his eyes. "I know it's probably in my head, but it felt like she kicked my ass more often than my brothers. Probably did; I had to stay home with her while they went to school. All day. Hungry, alone, and scared in that house all day, only the idiot-box to keep me company. Sure, I was watching TV shows I probably shouldn't have been-but it was someone talking to me; made me feel less alone."
"But I know your aunt, uncle, and cousins lived with you. Why weren't they there?"
"They didn't move in until way after dad died. Mom is not the sort to work. Ever. She wouldn't do jack shit-especially after he died. No cooking or cleaning, no being a mom; just sitting on her ass, drinking, smoking, and watching talk shows all day long. My uncle noticed how thin and sickly my brothers and I were one day, and moved him, Aunt Grizelda, Cousin Marietta, and Cousin Clementine from Idabena to take care of us-made her stop beating us. You see, my grandaddy was a son of a bitch. Like, a cartoonishly evil bastard. Got what he deserved; killed in prison. He used to beat the ever-loving hell out of my uncle every single day for ten years. Broken bones, bruises, blood. Anyway, my uncle did eventually catch her when I was seven. I don't want to talk about that shit today; why she stopped. I'll do that when I'm damn good and ready. She got counciling, though that's bullshit, and came home. She never hit us again, but she was still a colossal bitch. I honestly don't know why I bother sometimes. Nothing's ever good enough for her."
"You lost your father, and you were looking for love and acceptance from the only parent you had left: your mother." Once-ler sighs and shakes his head.
"I just felt so alone as a kid. At least when I was six, I got out of there-started going to that private school. I only got in there because I'm white. There were literally no white children from America in that school at all. I don't mean any offense, but they tried too hard to have diversity and look "colour-blind" and didn't notice that they didn't accept any American white kids since 1970. They were busted in 1995, and the following school-year, 1996-when I started 1st Grade-they just did a mad-grab for any white kid that met the basic requirements for admission to keep people from bitching about discriminating against white children." He sits back, slightly more relaxed than he was a moment ago. "Anyway, I started living there most of the time. I mean, I could go home on the weekends, but mom often didn't want to be bothered with driving up and getting me from school so I could come home. Instead, I stayed there with the foreign and out-of-state kids. It wasn't all bad-I managed to make a lot of friends. I ended up on the school's basketball team and was pretty popular, actually. I mean, I wasn't a dick, but I was popular."
"Go on."
"I had no trouble making friends; had plenty. There were some that I was closer to, but I didn't form a clique or anything. I'd be friends with anyone. Mostly, I was happy to be away from home; away from all the abuse and torment. I mean, I worried about Brett and Chet while I was at school, and I did feel guilty a lot."
"Oh? Why did you feel guilty?"
"I was safe and they weren't. I think I was afraid that, without me there, they had to split up the abuse mom'd give to me between them. I know that sounds stupid, but it's how I felt."
"You do know that what your mother did to you and your older brothers was not your or their fault, right?"
"Yeah; still didn't change anything. I mean, I knew she didn't have, like, a pie-chart or something of the "abuse-distribution". She wasn't like "Hmm...I normally break it into thirds, but with Oncie gone, I'm going to have to split his third in half and distribute it to Brett and Chet...". That's madness. No one does that, but when you're a kid, your sense of logic is a little off." He glances at the clock. "Hour's up. This has been pretty good; helped me some. I'll see you next week, Avery."