Demented

By Jonah Wolfe

Pushing the label "troubled teen" to a completely new level, "Demented" tells the story of William Benjamin Cook. A troubled teen from the Deep South, Ben's view of the world and his way of handling his problems are unique, and deadly. Witness the path that he leaves behind from his point of view. "Demented" only begins to describe the life of Ben.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonah Wolfe
• Release date: Sep 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301050147

Jonah Wolfe

I am a self-publisher and I have begun the endeavor to help others accomplish there dreams of becoming authors. I am open to any and all submissions.Thanks,Jonah Wolfe

Book preview

PROLOGUE

My name is William Benjamin Cook and I am a taker of lives. I have never been caught or even suspected of my crimes. There is nothing mystical or supernatural about what I do. I am neither a monster nor an evil entity. I do not proscribe to the label of murderer or killer. Those titles carry too dark of an overtone. I am not an Angel of Death, nor an Angel of Mercy; those beings belong in God’s realm, not mine. I seek no trophies and desire no fame. There is no fixation on a particular type of person and I find victim to be an inappropriate use of the term. The reasons that I am writing this are not clear to me. I want to tell my story, not for notoriety or fortune, but to try to explain my life. I do what I do for the simplest of reasons: I want to and I can.

CHAPTER 1

The first time that I took a life was the easiest. It was as if it was just given to me. It was much more than just a chance encounter. It is a memory that the passage of time has neither tarnished nor caused to fade away. The details are as clear and exquisite now as they were so many years ago.

I was only fifteen years old. It was a nice, sunny Sunday afternoon during the summer of 1984. Our church services had just finished that morning at Fall River Baptist Church. We were hosting our annual homecoming dinner in the church social hall that afternoon. Services had ended that morning with the usual amount of salvations and rededications. This was our usual celebration that ended our yearly church revival week.

The social hall and church grounds were crowded. Parents, grandparents, young children, and teenagers were seemingly everywhere. There had been a few baptisms that morning, both sincere and guilt-ridden. The baptismal pool was still full. The water was as clear that afternoon as it had been before washing so much sin away that morning. It was so inviting. I felt as if I was being called to it. It was pulling me toward it. Perhaps it was the accumulation of so much sin in one place that was manifesting itself and speaking to me, even calling my name. Of course, that would mean that I am insane, and I am far from that.

From the age of a small child until then I had always thought that parents were concerned about their little ones. That they would never just let them wander off. Not even for the briefest of moments. It was a parent’s job, no, their duty, to keep an ever watchful eye on their young ones. Children are parents’ progeny and their only true link to the future. That is how my parents had been; they had kept an ever-watchful eye on me at all times. Looking back, I really appreciate how much they were concerned about my safety. Horrible things happened while I was growing up. It was reassuring for me to know that my parents were truly concerned about my wellbeing. As is happens, I was responsible for a great number of those horrible things, but it was still nice to know that they were concerned. Most parents were not, and are not, as dedicated as mine were. It was on this summer day in 1984 that I discovered that some people should never have kids. It was not because they are bad people, but because they are bad parents. Not abusive, just not vigilant.

Small children are always so eager to try new things. They do not have the fear or hesitation that you find in older children and adults. Their unassuming minds are unaware of the dangers of trust. So much innocence in them has far too often led to so much temptation in others.

Candy. Such a simple word yet the very definition of it speak volumes. We learn, from an early age, that the word ‘candy’ means sweetness and satisfaction. It becomes our first taste of orgasmic pleasure. Sometimes, we are taught that ‘candy’ is a no, no and that we should avoid it at all possible costs. That it is bad for us. We are told that the sweet, syrupy goodness will make our teeth rot and our asses fat. However, is not the thing that we are not supposed to have what we want the most?

All I had to do was just show him a piece of candy. He became mesmerized. His eagerness to have candy now clearly displayed his inability to have it in the past. Maybe if his parents had not been such assholes with him and had actually allowed the child some level of gustatory pleasure, then he would not have wanted it so much. From a certain point of view, you could say that it was their fault for being so selfish. They probably had candy at home and ate it while hiding it from him. It was their fault he was led into temptation, not mine.

He followed me slowly at first, but moved much faster after I had let him taste the first small piece. It was just a broken piece, but it was more than enough for him to want more. Using the lure of the candy, I led him toward the front doors of the church. I bent down as we walked so as not to seem too large to him. Large objects can sometimes intimidate small children. Following me inside, he even closed the door behind him as a good little boy is supposed to. I made sure to tell him that to give him more reassurance than just the occasional shard of broken candy.

We walked faster now toward the pulpit. The open mouth of the Baptismal Pool was waiting. He stopped to look around for a moment and then continued to follow me. I crinkled the candy paper in my hand to keep his attention focused on me and not be distracted by anything else. I eased toward the door that led to the changing room. He followed quickly and quietly right behind me.

Once inside the changing room, I gave him another piece of candy. I had to ensure that I had his complete trust. After all, how could he trust me if I never satisfied his wants? He wanted the candy and, unlike his parents, I would not deny him this simplest of sensations. He quickly ate the small piece I gave him and looked up at me. His small eyes implored for more. He took a step toward me; I took a step toward the stairs leading to the pool. He would step, and I would step. We continued this dance across the room and up the stairs until I reached the edge of the Baptismal Pool. I sat down. He would have to continue toward me on his own. Behind me was the pool, the waters were silent and still.

For a moment, he paused on the bottom of the steps. The sound of crinkling paper pulled his gaze back to me. He continued to climb, his eyes fixated on the candy in my hand. He was not very steady walking up the steps. I was afraid that he would fall and get hurt but he used the wall for support as he climbed toward me. When he reached me, I gave him more of the candy. He sat down on my lap and continued to chew, his face full of happiness. I opened my hand and allowed him to grab as much candy as he wanted. He began to shove it into his yearning mouth as fast as he could. Greedy little bastard. When his mouth was full of candy, I gently lifted him up and placed him into the Baptismal Pool.

He seemed not to notice at first, to busy chewing and slobbering to pay too much attention as to what was occurring. As I slowly lowered him down, he began to look around, still chewing contently. It was when I gently released him that he became afraid. I was amazed to see the transformation from sheer joy to pure terror. Interesting. His clothes quickly absorbed the water, his diaper forcing his pants to push out. He tried to swim but only managed to splash water around. I took one hand and pushed his head under the water. He was small; I did not have to exert too much pressure to hold him under the water. His struggle continued for a few seconds; I had forgotten my watch so I was unable to time it. Finally, the little arms and legs stopped moving, and just a few tiny bubbles floated toward the surface. His sugar-laden fight for life had ceased. I released his head and watched him float away. He was so peaceful there, as if once again suspended in his mother’s womb.

I stood. Beside me was a pile of towels that had been used that morning to dry off those that had been baptized. I dried my hands and arms; then turned to walk down the stairs. Pausing for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, I listened. I could still hear the people outside, laughing and talking, unaware of what had happened. How soon would that change to screams and tears?

Walking out of the changing room, I entered back into the sanctuary. A large, golden cross hung above the pulpit behind where the preacher stood to perform. I stared up at it and thought about what I had just done. I had just saved that child from years of suffering and temptation. I had just sent him back to God. My deed had been a good thing, and I felt better about myself for doing it. For the first time in my life, I felt a sense of accomplishment.

CHAPTER 2

When I walked outside, I slid in amongst the throng of churchgoers. I smiled, laughed, and played with the crowd. This had been good day. My mind was still processing the sensation of what I had just experienced. I wanted to enjoy and relish this moment for as long as possible. To bask in the freedom and release I now felt. My enjoyment was to be short lived. I stopped and listened as someone began to call.

Tommy? Tommy? Where are you Tommy? It was a woman’s voice. It began light and playful, but changed as others joined in her search. Tommy! Tommy! Tommy! They created a moving chorus as they ran from place to place, looking and calling out his name. They continued their mob-like search, like a flock of birds moving to some unheard music. No one asked me if I had seen him. Anyway, how would I have answered if they had stopped and poised that simple question to me?

A loud scream echoed from inside the church. Guess they found him. I think I had picked up all the candy wrappers. Even if I had not, there was no reason to be too concerned. Accidents like that take place all the time, both then and now. It was an awful shame for such a terrible thing to happen to someone so young. Maybe they should have locked the baptismal pool doors or at least drained it when they had finished. I wondered if they would ever use it again. At the very least, they would definitely have to replace the water. Maybe it would be haunted, but I do not believe in ghosts. To me, I find the idea of ghosts to be a stupid idea. The thought of the dead coming back to visit us made no sense to me.

Everyone would eventually blame someone for Tommy’s death, but everyone would also say that it was no one’s fault. It was an accident, or better yet, it was God’s will. It is somewhat funny how we quickly seem to find someone, or something, to blame for what goes wrong yet we are incredibly slow to heap praise on others when things go right. Tommy’s death had been his parent’s fault. They should have been watching their kid better. Bad parents. Bad parents.

The crowd moved toward the church door and I followed only to be unceremoniously turned around. I guess they were afraid we would see something bad that might scar us and require us to go to therapy. We were dragged to church every Sunday, and we listened to the preacher tell us how we are all bad because we are born of a sinful nature. We were told that if we do not repent and ask for forgiveness, then we will burn in hell for eternity to be forever consumed by the flames of our misdeeds…yet they are afraid seeing a dead body would possibly scar us. Peculiar.

They took all of the children into the social hall next door. At fifteen, I still fell into the child category. A few of the adults joined us and began to hover over us like mother hens watching their brood. Some of the deacons tried to explain to us what happened and to keep us calm. We heard the approach of the sirens. Everyone tried to run to the windows to look outside, but they made us sit back down. We just wanted to see. The adults looked outside; they wanted to see, too. We all like the macabre.

I decided that I had to pee. I asked to go to the bathroom and they let me go, unescorted.

Once I was inside the bathroom, I climbed up on the toilet and peered outside. I watched the melee that was taking place. Ambulance and police lights were flashing in the daylight, like cheap Christmas lights going dim. People, good church going people, were blatantly shoving each other for a better view. No one wanted to miss a thing. They all wanted to make sure that they could say, I saw this, or I saw that with as much accuracy as possible when they gossiped about it later. Some women cried. They must have been sincerely upset because they were crying in public. Even a few men cried. Damn, I hate weak people.

The crowd that had formed began to part near the church doors. They were bringing him out. In between the suits and dresses, I managed to get a brief glimpse of him. It was not really him, not anymore. It was just a white sheet over a small lump laying on a gurney. It had ceased to be Tommy in the pool. I had known that, but the other people did not seem to get it. I wanted to scream at them that it was now just flesh, bone, and blood. Their little boy was gone and all that was left was, well, leftovers. However, that would not have done any good. To be honest, they probably would not have heard me from inside the bathroom anyway. If they could…if they could, would they have understood? Would they have wanted to understand? I doubted it, people like their grief too much to let it go that easy. If we cannot have love then fuck it, we want pain.

They loaded the body into the back of the ambulance and shut the doors. Tommy’s mother had tried to climb inside, but she had been pulled away. The ambulance seemed so huge compared to his little body. For a moment, I wondered if they had smaller ambulances, or if it was one-size-fits-all in this cookie cutter world of ours. The ambulance pulled out of the churchyard and drove away. A few cars, including Tommy’s parents, trailed behind the ambulance as it moved away from the church. The overall crowd began to disperse. A few of the older folks headed toward their cars, while others headed toward the fellowship hall to collect their kids. The survivors.

I realized, almost too late, that my father was walking toward the building. I hopped down and headed out of the bathroom back toward the rest of the children. I straightened myself up as I entered the room, making sure my clothing was properly arranged. Appearance is everything. I did a quick pat down to ensure that I was completely dried off. All was good.

Are you okay? my father had asked as he tried to take my hand and lead me out of the room. I pulled away. I was fifteen years old and that is excessively old to hold hands with your parents. I’m fine, but I’m not sure what happened. Why were we ushered into the social hall? Is everything okay? I asked. I stared down at my feet while we walked, not wanting to make eye contact, not yet. I glanced up to see if his face would betray his thoughts. It did. I could see the emotion in his face, just there under the surface of his complexion. He was trying to choose the right words, the right phrase. He was seeking the explanation that would answer my questions and allay all of my unspoken fears at the same time. How do you tell a fifteen year old that a little boy just died but that everything is still okay? I do not know how I would have done it. I wondered how he would.

Son, he began, I hated that damn word, and I have a name, I’m not sure how to tell you this but something terrible happened today.

He paused; was it for effect or was he still trying to find the right words? I was tempted to finish the sentence for him, but that would have been wrong. It’s not nice to interrupt adults.

Tommy Harris drowned in the Baptismal Pool during the dinner. We guess he just wandered off and fell in, he said slowly, pacing himself as if he was afraid that he might go too fast for me to understand.

We continued walking toward the car. I looked up at him now. His eyes were red, but he was not crying. My dad was not weak. He hurt, it showed clearly, but he held it back. That took strength. I looked away, not wanting to stare.

Your mother is taking this real hard, Dad said.

My mother was sitting in the car, sobbing in the front seat. She was a pretty woman but fragile, too fragile for this world at times.

She works in the nursery from time to time. She has helped to take care of Tommy since right after he was born, my father wiped at his eye as he said this last part.

As we got closer to the car, my mother looked into the vanity mirror of the visor. She was trying to clean herself up, afraid that if I saw her crying I would cry. It was good that she considered my feelings, even in this time of sorrow and me. My father walked around to the driver’s side and got in. Usually, I rode behind him, but today I