The Birthmark

By Richard Ilnicki

The story of a mentally and emotionally challenged young man who becomes a suicidal sociopath. This is not a mystery, but the story has a somewhat mysterious ending. The story will challenge the imagination, and only reader will know, or not know, how the story ends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543904406

Book preview

© Richard Ilnicki 2017

Print ISBN: 978-1-54390-439-0

eBook ISBN: 978-1-54390-440-6

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

I would like to dedicate this book to my stepdaughter

April Elizabeth Grande

"The only gift better than a book is

Time enough to read it."

Richard Ilnicki

Cover design by Robert Cooke ([e-mail])

Table of Contents

End with the Beginning in Mind

Facing The Moon's Dark Side

The Mythomaniac

Unbound

A Peaceful Death

Out of The Shadows

The Gallivant

He wasn’t quite sure why he hated himself as much and as thoroughly as he did, but he knew he did. There was no doubt about it. When he thought about himself he became nauseous, and sometimes he even vomited, leaving his cowardly guts in a fecal stained toilet bowl. Occasionally he would stuff himself on greasy fast food then stick his finger down his throat to bring up the poorly digested globs of disgusting hate. He wasn’t absolutely certain when he began to feel as if he had become a dead man walking, but he thought it might have had something to do with a self-imposed birthmark that secretly haunted him, even though his friends would often tell him it really wasn’t nearly as awful as he thought it was. However, all that really mattered was what he thought of it, and he thought it was appallingly horrendous and worthy of obliteration, even a kind of decapitation that would find his worthless head in a garbage can or in an abandoned factory hanging from the rusty rafters. On more than one occasion he considered sticking the muzzle of a loaded shotgun into his mouth then pulling the trigger with his big toe. He’d heard of other individuals who attempted suicide with a loaded gun pointed at their temple, only to survive the attempt. They’d been left a living vegetable and were thereafter taken care of by the state. If he were to take his own life he wanted to be absolutely certain that he’d have no chance of survival. He wouldn’t want to be known as one of those retarded chaps who couldn’t even commit suicide properly.

No one could possibly survive the blast of a shotgun that had been stuffed into their mouth. This would also be much more dramatic while leaving the back of his head splattered against the living room wall. If he were to ever pull this off he would only have one regret, and that would be to not be able to observe the face or faces of those who would have found him. Besides this certain death, there would be another certainty: no suicide note, absolutely not! He’d want to keep everyone guessing, especially those closest to him who’d always considered him to be quite normal and incapable of hurting a fly. In fact, the only time suicide had ever been seriously discussed and considered was when one of his Catholic friends, who appeared outwardly to be in the same boat, said he was afraid to commit suicide because he thought he might go to hell

He’d not so much as hinted at the possibility, but he was tempted to tell friend that the hell he was living in might be worse than the hell he might be consigned to. This was an issue he never had to deal with since he didn’t believe the bible. Even if he did he’d probably question his friends reasoning because even he knew that if Jesus died for your sins He died for all of them, and if suicide was a sin then forgiveness of that sin would be no exception. It would be covered by the blood, so to speak.

His vituperative thoughts were seldom outwardly manifested towards friends, neighbors or relatives, nor his co-workers, when he was able to get to work, which had become less and less frequent. No, these invidious thoughts were typically aimed inwardly at a target as easy to hit as a sitting duck; they hit the bullseye every time. Had this not been the case he probably would have murdered at least one person by now. Not that he didn’t ever think about killing people. He thought about killing people quite often. As it is, the only person who actually suffered from these poison-tipped arrows was himself.

This self-hatred had become an obsession. These abnormal thoughts were now making it difficult for him to survive in society. All he ever thought about was how much he despised his existence, and how that he, as well as society, would be better off without him. He wanted to kill himself more than anything, but he just couldn’t pull the trigger. He’d made numerous plans on how and when he would pull it off, but something seemed to always come-up that prohibited the necessary follow through. So instead of killing himself at that inconvenient moment he tortured himself, instead. The methods of torture he employed were seldom physical, although occasionally he would willingly inflict himself with certain forms of physical torture, nothing excruciatingly painful, however. His favorite was to stick himself in the abdomen with a hat pin. The true pain he inflicted upon himself was psychological, and he was relentless. He showed himself no mercy because this kind of pain was much worse than physical pain, and if anyone deserved it, he did.

His favorite pastime had become to look at himself in the mirror then call himself all kinds of cruel names, mostly laced with the foulest of language. He was especially fond of swear words, in particular the word fuck. Somehow he found that to be the perfect word to describe himself, especially when he added the Ing ending coupled with idiot, jerk, numskull, jackass, retard, blockhead, dodo, dolt, dupe, dummy, nitwit, simpleton, lunatic, madman, loser, beast, cad, churl, clown, heel, fool, beast, moron.

Interestingly and oddly enough he despised the use of profanity and never used it in public. In fact, when he heard it being used by his friends or co-workers he would frequently upbraid them for their inability to select a more intelligent approach to communicating, especially if one were expressing anger. Some of his friends seemed to be totally incapable of putting two or more sentences together without using some type of profanity. He’d often wondered how they could have become his friends in the first place, but they were, and most of them were good friends. Not much really separated them, except that he had come to worship the English language, and he hated to see its beauty being unwittingly abused. Sometimes when he heard this abuse he felt as if he had just become an innocent bystander watching his sister being gang-raped by a group of slothful uncouth high school dropouts, whose constant use of double-negatives caused him to suffer from severe and frequently debilitating migraines. Once when he asked one of his friends for a pencil the friend said, I ain’t got none. He tried to explain to him that if he truly didn’t have none then he would have had one and would have been able to meet the request. Based on the sincerity of his explanation his friend just laughed and said, That don’t make no sense.

In the presence of his friends his birthmark seemed to be of little or no consequence. They just accepted it, alright, but deep down inside he still felt as if they were making fun of him. Maybe not to his face, although sometimes they would poke fun at him because they knew he knew they were his friends, and that it didn’t make a damn bit of difference about his supposed imperfection. He was certain they talked about his birthmark in private, and who knows how they really felt about it. He just had a very difficult time believing that anybody could accept the way he looked when his birthmark was exposed, and, of course, that is why he seldom traveled out of his geographical comfort zone. However, sometimes he would get on the bus and go downtown just to observe the looks he would get from strangers; sometimes it would be the subway or the L-train. Most people were kind enough not to stare once they made eye contact. Others seemed to be unable to take their eyes off him. The most frightening experiences were the encounters that took place in restaurants especially in the buffet line. And, of course, kids could be the most unwittingly cruelest when they would say, rather loudly, "Mommy, look at that man’s face.

What happened to him? He’s so ugly. Why did they let him in here? Isn’t there a way he could cover himself? Why doesn’t he wear a mask?" Of course, the parents would take a hard look at him then kindly hush the child, while turning their faces into sympathetic silent screams. While it certainly wasn’t as bad as the look they would give a palsied, contorted, aplastic, hydrocephalic, drooling teenager captive to a diminutive abnormal body held in a wheelchair by belts, straps and braces, it was enough to make him wish their next child would be born with sockets for eyes with its heart lodged outside of the chest cavity.

Besides his room, his other favorite place to visit was the park. In the park, he could easily find isolated areas out of sight of the other park visitors, and there were certain times when the park would not be very crowded, or even empty. He’d chosen a favorite tree somewhat off the beaten path to sit under. He liked to just sit under the tree and meditate. Frequently he would bring something to read. He liked to write, but he didn’t think he was very good at it. Nevertheless, he’d write, and sometimes he’d write something he thought was pretty good. Inthe park, and especially while sitting under the tree, he didn’t seem to hate himself as much, and he didn’t very often think about killing anyone, but those thoughts were merely on a very brief sabbatical or temporarily sedated. Those thoughts ruled the day and the night, and, ultimately, they would win the day. They never truly slept, and, if by chance they were sleeping, the result would always be the same, a nightmare; the same pavor nocturnus he experienced as a child. He was certain he had been born guilty, not innocent, and that guilt haunted him. He was delighted when one day he came across the following quote by Lord Byron: Oh! that pang where more than madness lies, that worm that will not sleep and never dies. However, on the other hand, one day he thought. Since, I have not accepted the big T of TULIP I have no reason to feel guilty. That’s right, Total Depravity doesn’t exist in my book.

This favorite tree was the biggest and tallest tree in the park, and it had an over-abundance of limbs that stretched far and wide. The trunk of the tree was huge and measured six feet across. Because the tree was somewhat off limits to humans it attracted a lot of birds and other animals such as squirrels and chipmunks. They didn’t seem to mind his presence, and after he started to share his lunch with them, they began to welcome him. In time, these animals became his family, and since the tree was on the outskirts of the park and very near to the beginning of the forest he’d occasionally receive visits from some of the wilder animals like rabbits and deer.

Since the tree was so far removed from the main thoroughfare of the park he could probably have stayed under the tree after the park closed, but he never did. He always went home, and on most nights, even though he’d had a good

day at the park, he’d look at himself in the mirror and curse. Then, on most of these nights, he’d stick himself with the hat pin until he felt adequately repentant for being who he was. In time, the hat pins he purchased became longer and longer, and the painful penetration went deeper and deeper. He was often surprised at just how much pain he could actually tolerate. The bloodier the better. One night while sticking himself it dawned on him that if he were brave enough he’d stick the hat pin directly into his pupil. He would then be blind in one eye and could wear a patch over that eye. He felt this would add a mysterious dimension to his blasé personality and improve his low self-esteem. Another benefit would be that he would have a more difficult time viewing his distasteful image in the mirror. And, of course, the next most logical step would be to pierce the pupil of his other eye to completely blind himself, so that at least he would not ever have to look at himself in the mirror again. However, he was smart enough to dismiss this ridiculous thought because it wasn’t so much what he saw when he looked in the mirror; it was what other people saw when they looked at him that really mattered. It was the horror he was producing in the lives of other people that was of utmost importance. If he were the only man on earth he could live with the way he looked. His grotesque appearance was a problem, of course, but it was the horror his face generated in innocent bystanders that made him hate himself the most, especially small children whose affection and love he seemed to crave.

It almost goes without saying that he never had a serious girlfriend. It wasn’t that the girls were not kind and friendly towards him. It’s just that they were genuinely sympathetic and probably felt sorry for him. In their presence, though they appeared to be kind, he never felt more inadequate. Once one of the most beautiful girls in his class, a cheerleader who was also an honor student, told him he had nothing to be embarrassed about, and that besides being brilliant he was as handsome on the inside as was her boyfriend, the current starting quarterback, on the outside. Unfortunately, instead of her remarks making him feel better, it had just the opposite effect. He knew he would never have as beautiful a girlfriend as her, and that he probably would never have a girlfriend, period. What good would a brilliant mind and beautiful interior be worth to someone who didn’t deserve to be alive? Her comment made him think about how his friends would often say something like this about a homely girl with a great personality, Well, she might not be much to look at, but she sure has a great personality. Or, even worse, when they