Hill William

By Scott McClanahan

Hill William is a novel-in-stories chronicling the life of a young boy growing up in the mountains of today's West Virginia. Going no further than a mile from his home, the reader accompanies the narrator as he discovers the universe, as well as himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyrant Books
• Release date: Oct 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9780985023560

Book preview

PSYCHIATRISTS AND MOUNTAIN DEW

I used to hit myself in the face. Of course, I had to be careful about hitting myself now that I was dating Sarah. One night we got into a fight and I went into the bathroom to get rid of that sick feeling in my shoulders, and I did it. I wasn’t feeling any better afterwards, so I hit myself in the face one more time. I saw something behind me.

She had been standing there the whole time.

She was saying, Did you just hit yourself in the face?

No, I said trying to cover it up because I knew pretty girls weren’t crazy about guys who hit themselves in the face.

She said, Yes you did. You’re hitting yourself in the face. I saw you and I heard it too.

She asked me why I did it.

I kept denying it. I did not punch myself in the face.

She wouldn’t let it go.

She kept saying, If you didn’t do it then what’s that big red welt on the side of your cheek? It’s all swollen.

I went over to the mirror and looked at myself. O my god. I’ve always been vain. There was a knot on my face bigger than shit.

O my god, I fucked up my face, I said and started crying. I fucked up my face. I fucked up my face.

So you were hitting yourself? she said and went into the kitchen for some ice. Goddamnit.

I knew if she said Goddamnit—she was really pissed.

Goddamnit and I had to go and stay at Motel 8 for the night.

Goddamnit and I was moving my stuff into the basement.

I told her. Will you get off my back, please? I hit myself in the face sometimes—it’s no big deal.

Then I remembered we were going to my folk’s house that evening and here I was with this big knot on the side of my head.

O shit—I’d completely forgotten about my folks. For the rest of the day I went into a panic about getting the swelling down. I took the ice pack, put it on my cheek, and then every couple of minutes, I went over to the mirror and looked to see if the swelling had gone down.

I asked her, Does it look better? Does it look any better?

She said, Well, it looks like you punched yourself in the face.

She said I needed to quit messing with it and just sit down for a while. I put the ice pack back on my face and let it sit there. I took it off after fifteen minutes and asked again if it looked any better. She shook her head.

This went on and on until it was time to go.

Does it look better?

No.

Does it look better?

No.

Does it look better?

By the time we went over to my mom and dad’s the swelling had gone down, but you could still tell the cheek was swollen. As soon as I got out of the car I kept going over the story I was going to tell them if anyone noticed, about how it was dark and how I tripped over a laundry basket and almost killed myself.

Shitten ass laundry baskets.

But once inside nobody noticed, or at least they weren’t saying anything if they noticed. When I got back out to the car I told Sarah that I’d never hit myself in the face again—no matter how much I was hurting. I told her I’d never do it again. I promised her. I promised her it was the end. I promised her I was going to show her that things were different now.

Over the next couple of days I tried keeping my promise. One day I was in a crowd of people and I felt myself needing to do it, and instead of letting it rip, I just whispered, Don’t do it. Whatever you do—don’t do it.

Then a couple of days later I was feeling all stressed out, so I kept repeating. You’re fine. You don’t need to do it.

It was working.

I got the chance to see if it was really working just a couple of days later when I was sitting on the couch and Sarah came home and asked if I’d mowed the grass. For a couple of days I’d been telling her that I was going to mow it, but here it was Friday and I just didn’t feel like it. And for some reason when she said this I snapped. I stood up and told her, No, I didn’t mow the grass and if you’re so concerned about it, why don’t you mow it?

Just to be a pain in the ass and knowing it would piss me off, she said, I’ll go out there and mow it. I don’t mind.

I was pissed and I told her, I don’t want you to mow the grass because I don’t want to spend the evening in the goddamn emergency room.

She told me she was going to do it anyway.

This pissed me off even more, and I told her she wasn’t going to mow the grass because I was going to throw the lawnmower over the hill. That would show her.

Sarah, I’m going to throw the fucking lawnmower over the hill.

I went outside to throw the lawnmower over the hill. This all made sense at the time. When I tried opening the door I couldn’t get the door open, and my face hit the door. I walked outside and went behind the house to get the lawnmower, but then I looked up and Sarah was laughing at me from a window. So I came back inside and threw this bottle of Mountain Dew I was drinking on the ground.

I told Sarah, You make me want to hit myself in the face, but I’m not hitting myself in the face, and this shows I’m doing better.

I was the winner. I was better now. There was Mountain Dew everywhere.

A couple of hours later we started getting into it again. I said something, and then she said something. Then she said something, and then I said something.

Then she said, How come you can’t handle anything?

This made me even more mad so I said something back to her. That pissed her off even more and then I saw that it was all lost.

I couldn’t get rid of the sick feeling in my stomach. I couldn’t get rid of the tightness in my shoulders like my head was going to pop off. And then it started playing in my head—the bad memories, the old bad memories. I made a fist. I took my fist and punched myself right in front of her. She shrieked and followed me into the bathroom.

She cried and said, You need help baby. You just need to talk to somebody. You’re kind of fucked up.

She said kind of to soften the blow. But I kept doing it—pop, pop. I fell to the floor. She screamed. I did it with the left hand. She screamed. I did it with the right hand. She screamed. Stop it. Stop it.

I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop because it felt good.

Just like right now I find myself getting ready to do it.

I hit myself.

I feel the blood surging to my head.

I hit myself.

I feel my jaw tightening.

I hit myself.

It feels like a prayer.

I hit myself.

It feels like something strange.

I hit myself.

It feels like something beautiful.

HOW I FINALLY BECAME COOL

I just wanted to be cool. Derrick was a lot older than I was (like fifteen), and I thought he was the coolest. I was nine. He was always shooting guns, or sighting in his bow, or chewing tobacco, or talking about how he was going to kick some guy’s ass. I was six years younger and I always followed him around. One day he asked me to come and play Atari Pitfall with him. It wasn’t fifteen minutes into being there that he disappeared into his mom and dad’s bedroom. It seemed like he was gone for a long time, but I just kept playing and didn’t really think anything about it until I got killed or something.

I heard Derrick saying, Hey. Come back here. I want to show you something.

I got up and walked down the hallway into his folk’s bedroom where he was standing over a metal filing cabinet beside his dad’s bed. I couldn’t believe I was getting to hang out with one of the older guys.

It was open and he said, Let me show you.

He reached into the filing cabinet, full of bills, and pulled out something from way in the back. I walked over to the metal filing cabinet to see what it was and I saw Derrick holding this Reader’s Digest size magazine in his hands.

It was this 1970’s style dirty book that didn’t even have any pictures in it really but just these drawings of people having sex and these little dirty stories to go along with them.

The drawings were the kind of drawings they have in the 1973 edition of The Joy of Sex where the men all have hairy chests and bushy beards, and the women have bushy things. We sat down on the bed and Derrick flipped through all of the pictures of dirty parts and told me about the stories. I was shocked,

Reviews for Hill William

[wilsonknut · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Abandoned. Essentially, this is hillbilly pedophile porn. I wish I could get my money back.

[melissarochelle_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Read on February 22, 2014 I knew making my way through the Tournament of Books shortlist would be a challenge. I read for good stories, not good writing. I don't care if a writer comes from some fantastic MFA program in Iowa or NYC. I want a book that entertains or educates or something. This little book takes everything bad that could happen to a kid and makes it happen. It was a tough read -- like watching 12 Years a Slave -- you know these things have happened to people, but it doesn't make it any easier to read/watch.And IS this a memoir? Is it fiction? And what is the title about? Did I miss a Hill named William? Is it supposed to remind me of hillbillies in Appalachia? I have no idea. Scott's story -- the guy in the book which could be the author -- is full of lots of bad and lots of odd and lots of stuff. At the end, he tells me he loves me, but the ending didn't make any sense to me anyway.I swear, sometimes people rave about books just so they can seem smarter and I am SO not that person. SO...yeah...not the book for this reader.

[alexezell · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A remarkable book that lays bare the darkness which might wait for any of us. It treads a fine path between caricature and raw emotion showing us how fragile we are as children. Written in one of the strongest voices I've ever read, the muddled rage and apathy of the main character limns the impotence that assaults modern man. Not pretty, not beautiful, but castigating and vibratory in its clarity. Wonderful.