Some Are Destined

By Irene Slater

Welcome to the Age of Aquarius, an exciting time to be alive in Chicago during the year 1974. This is a tale about a man society turned its back on simply because he was different. In a moment of passion, he commits murder, then later encounters a lovely woman who recognizes his suffering. Both souls are damaged, but their combined anguish begins their redemption. Although the first chapter is powerful, this is not a slash-and-burn story, but a thrilling love tale that shows what the smallest amount of caring can accomplish. The author does not preach but lets all the stirring characters work their magic. Some Are Destined is a page-turner about a time half the population remembers as if yesterday, so take a deep breath and enter the Devils Den disco bar with care. If you want to experience the 70s in Chicago, meet thought-provoking characters, and read something edgy and unpredictable, this is your chance to be captivated and enjoy a great story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466973817

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© Copyright 2013 Irene Slater.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7382-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7381-7 (e)

Trafford rev. 01/08/2013

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There are times a beautiful soul can

overcome physical corruption.

Beasty

This book is dedicated to all the

animals that suffer brutal lives in laboratories,

fur farms, and factory farms,

then die vicious deaths because of

man’s inhumanity.

I also want to acknowledge Sandy Bancroft

and Judy Van Conant for their encouragement.

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THE COLD STEEL OF MY Bowie knife slid across her throat, its razor sharp eight inch blade cutting easily through cartilage and bone. Within moments, the shrill screams stopped, leaving only gurgling sounds as warm blood gushed down my arms, her dying body flailing about like a rag shaken by an exuberant puppy.

It was then I struggled with the victim’s head and slit open her right carotid artery. Although it was gruesome to watch, I wasn’t shocked when even more blood spattered and pooled over the dark cellar floor. Only obtaining the hunting knife because it felt good in my hands, the thought that one day it would be used to murder another human being was always beyond my wildest dreams.

But now the unbelievable was happening, the whole scene a literal dreamscape—more fantasy than reality, detached from any concept of right and wrong. Being absorbed in years of loathing and self-pity, it was difficult to realize that the things I saw and felt were real and I was right smack in the middle of a personal nightmare.

Seconds later I dropped the writhing body to the ground and saw the horror on her face, searching eyes attempting to track my movements, a vacant mind trying to hold on to only moments of remaining consciousness. Only then did I realize it was my mother and not some twisted, grotesque form in a dream that would mercifully go away. Still, though I had just committed what many would consider the ultimate carnage, I felt more awe than regret.

Moments later, I saw two glowing eyes floating slowly above my head. They had a frightened expression and oozed a substance that resembled steaming tears. I tried to understand what was before me, to reach out and caress the emptiness, but suddenly it disappeared, leaving only black, gloomy darkness. I shook like a leaf in a demented storm and realized that moment might be a glimpse of hell’s nightmarish world as mother’s soul began its passage into Satan’s waiting arms.

Either way, the day had finally arrived. A moment in time I fantasized about had now come to pass—here lay the woman who had caused so much pain and loved so little, a woman who hadn’t sought prenatal care when it could have made a difference to discover the sexually transmitted disease starting to rot her young body, then swollen from months of life with me in her womb.

Mother was a prostitute, you see, so I’ll never know my father, who he was, what made him tick, his joys and fears—was he handsome or just another guy. Unfortunately, mother’s disease was not discovered until my birth. A few treatments of penicillin early in the pregnancy could have saved me from a fate worse than death, but she was ignorant of health issues and I was born with all the classic abnormalities of congenital syphilis—in my case, one might even say, exaggerated abnormalities of the disfiguring disease. So, in my formative years, Beasty became my nickname—an indignity I suffer to this very day.

The year of my transgression was 1974. Mother and I were living together in a slum area near downtown Chicago, the words not used haphazardly as downtown Chicago really meant, in the heart of the beast.

Now, only minutes after her murder and after reflecting a bit, I realized my revenge was hollow and fell short of the intended goal because it didn’t change anything—I still wouldn’t be able to escape my damaged body because I had no money for expensive plastic surgery to relieve me of a saddle nose, and nothing short of a miracle could improve the stunted body that encased my bright and imaginative soul. Mother’s neglect had doomed me to a life of rejection by nervous people who were repulsed at the sight of this broken vessel—careless on-lookers who avoided even the briefest eye contact. As a result, I realized very early that tender kisses, passion and the sheer joy of living would always be strangers to me. Instead of love, the overwhelming emotion of anger would be free to consume my every motivation until I pass through this unforgiving world.

Thinking back, I remember one day as an innocent child, my mother’s face twisted in a haunting grin as she told me how she tried to kill me in her womb. I still cringe when recalling the way her eyes grew into tiny slots as the woman described how she went down into the cellar and jumped rope. When that didn’t cause an abortion, she jumped off a chair several times, even falling once, but nothing worked. It seemed God was determined to have me brought into existence to suffer a wretched life.

Like any child, I craved a mother’s love but the hag was so repulsed by my appearance that she refused to nurse me and propped my bottle in towels placed near my mouth as I cried in hunger, often unable to find the rubber nipple. When luck prevailed and I was able to obtain nourishment, instead of being held and loved, the woman left me to roll in a crib for hours until exhaustion released me into a merciful sleep, only to wake again and suffer more rejection. I certainly didn’t realize it then, but rolling back and forth saved me from bedsores and a lop-sided head, a condition not uncommon in infants who are unloved and unattended. However, it also taught me rhythm and helped develop my language skills because I’d babble innocently with music that often blared from a radio. At least the contraption seemed to care. Although only a mere toddler, I still remember how desperate I was to feel my mother’s arms around me in a warm embrace, anything to tell me that I mattered in the slightest. That basic desire ended abruptly one day when the shrew shoved me off her lap, shouting to leave her alone to enjoy a cigarette. The witch even had the audacity to tease me—her helpless child—for having light sensitive, constantly watering eyes that I keep covered with dark glasses, day and night, another side effect passed on to me through mother’s disease.

When still a small child, mother was curious as to the extent of my infirmities, and she took me to a free clinic where the doctors determined that although my body was deformed I was intelligent and could be educated. She then reluctantly enrolled me in kindergarten, where I desperately wanted to make friends but the other children tormented me, as kids do. In fact, my life became so unbearable, each day when it was time to go to school, I would hide and when found, scream at the top of my lungs that I didn’t want to go. It made mother so miserable she finally consented to a form of home schooling that consisted of phonics recordings and the in-depth study of girlie magazines.

As I grew older, I began to enjoy the publications because each issue usually included a test that promised to indicate how compatible I was with a fictional mate. Of course, while learning to read, I also learned a lot about female sexuality. As time passed and my reading skills increased, more appropriate material such as travel and adventure stories began to interest me because they increased my limited ability to escape the reality of a putrid existence.

Two television characters, Howdy Doody and Captain Kangaroo, taught me the concept of numbers. Mother was actually thoughtful enough to provide me with a children’s workbook and I eagerly practiced adding, subtracting and long division until I mastered all the rudimentary mathematical skills.

Because my superior mind collected spoken words and burned them into memory, I became proficient in taking basic words and creating complicated sentence patterns. That idiosyncrasy also provided the ability to repeat whole conversations right down to the smallest details—even what was happening at the time the words were spoken. Because of this gift, unusual for any child, it was possible early in my formative years to appear educated, and watching television for hours only increased my vocabulary skills with little effort but to simply stay awake. As a side benefit, it also makes it possible for me to tell you my story in the most straightforward of terms.

Unfortunately, there was a downside. Approximately twelve years later, when they again tested me for various disabilities, I was found to be slightly schizophrenic. I overheard mother explain to a friend that it had something to do with my mind. Being young and not fully understanding the implications of such a disorder, it was easy to shrug off the information and convince myself it probably developed from being male and saturating myself with female articles during my developing years and, of course, that blame rightly fell on mother.

But now, her lifeless body next to me, the struggle of being her unwanted son was over and the sounds of my breath coming in hard bursts from the effects of strange sensations washing over my beleaguered soul made me feel sick. It no longer mattered if God would punish the woman because that crossroad had now been accomplished in just a few frightening moments and finally the scales of justice balanced properly as I pulled mother’s body closer to a window. Moonlight shining on her face removed the effects of a hard life and made her look peaceful—even pretty. She was at least fifty years old and her heavy makeup and bleached hair were softened by the shadow of death.

Taking her into my arms and wailing like a wounded banshee while slowly rocking back and forth must have seemed strange to my alter ego, but it had a purpose. The tears flowed not because of her death but for all the love denied me, and the lost opportunity to enjoy a happy, normal life.

Hours must have passed because my arms and back began to throb under the weight of her lifeless body.

Sunrise eventually came and I dragged the corpse further into the cellar and buried her remains in a shallow grave. I still have nightmares about that task—the dull sounds of the shovel, the final moments when struggling to push mother into the hole and arrange her torso and limbs so she at least looked reasonably comfortable. Then I carefully placed a rag over her face because for some absurd reason I felt it was disrespectful to throw dirt in her face. Did that mean I had a conscience?

When finished, smelly sweat and warm, sticky blood covered my entire being. So much for motherly love, I told myself as I climbed dirty wooden stairs leading to the kitchen.

Exhausted and filthy, I undressed and went to the bathroom, looking forward to covering myself with hot, soul-cleansing water.

While soaking in the tub, my mind was in torment and it suddenly came to me that what I had done could never be undone, too late to be sorry, too late to make it go away, too late to hit rewind on the remote. Unfortunately, my newly discovered conscience was making me feel even worse.

After the water grew tepid then cold, I left my bath and staggered exhausted into bed. My clothes will have to be burned later, I reminded myself, the last disgusting thought before falling into a fitful sleep of horrible dreams and violent shaking. Little did I know that it was the beginning of Satan’s control of my mind, body and soul—and, yes, the flight plan for the rest of my life.

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SUFFICIENT TIME PASSED TO ALLOW me to recover from any remorse I was suffering, and it was time to start thinking about my uncertain future. No one missed mother because she had an abrasive personality, and people avoided her like candy to a dieter, which was extremely fortunate for me. I had no brothers or sisters and at the time of mother’s death, she was on disability caused by the syphilis that went untreated too long. Truthfully, her untimely departure had absolutely no importance to anyone except me.

A short time later, I applied for public aid and was successful in getting the free handout. It wasn’t much help but allowed me to maintain our rundown shack. I certainly didn’t live like a king but with careful management, I was able to save a few dollars each month, which was a miracle.

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The next year came and went. It was the beginning of spring, and the heavy rhythmic beat of disco was quickly becoming a symbol of the social and economic upheaval unleashed by young and middle aged, single and married, inhabitants of the United States. Bob Dylan and Joan Baez were as much household names as Bayer Aspirin and Comet cleanser. Flower children and bellbottom pants were the rage as gays and lesbians began their drum beat to become a legitimate part of American society. At the same time, disabled, minorities and women were mounting a strong offensive for equal pay and employment opportunities.

Because of the pill, it was also a liberating time on the fornicating side of the fence, and sexually transmitted diseases were suddenly not a serious concern—penicillin and other designer drugs took care of the problems the establishment was willing to talk about. Years later, when herpes showed its ugly head, it was the demise of free sex. Some will remember that herpes was a pleasant way of saying you screwed up . . . pun intended. Shortly after that, AIDs made its ugly presence known and brought the revolution to its knees. But at the time of my story, sex was driven to the forefront and divorce was quickly gaining acceptance because it seemed everyone was doing it, resulting in the death of long marriages as young and old were thrown together in bawdy night clubs where the songs of the time kept telling everyone that anything goes. By anyone’s standards, it was a thrilling time to live in America, where sin flourished with seemingly no dues to pay.

And who could forget about drugs and their influence on the culture? It suddenly became cool to get high, to tune in and drop out as Timothy Leary, the father of LSD, was famous for saying, and people of all ages were experimenting with marijuana and cocaine. In fact, anything that looked white and powdery was okay to snort and if you couldn’t get it up your nose, you could certainly stick it in some other orifice. However, even though all hell was breaking loose, by choice, I mostly stayed to myself—it was safer that way.

For the most part, my only pretense of a social life was visiting mother in the cellar during holidays and her birthday. Now that she was dead, and there was no need to interact with the woman, I used the cellar appointments to unleash a great deal of pent up anger heretofore kept bottled inside. It’s difficult to forget how my heart would race as I ranted and raved, followed by unrestrained tears of deep sorrow. I guess I cried because I wanted what others had, a caring, loving and understanding mother. Oh, yeah, how I wanted that . . .

Thankfully, as time passed, my psyche healed enough to make me wonder how I could once again rejoin the living, and for brief periods of time I imagined myself as possibly approaching normal. I was now rational enough to at least realize that a dead woman’s company was not sufficient for a young man. Truthfully, deep down I longed to put on a tie-dyed shirt from Marshall Fields, a gold chain, Reebock running shoes and disco the night away with a pretty blonde whose breasts bounced in rhythm with an intoxicating beat, I mean really large hooters like Jayne Mansfield, before she was decapitated. However, the thought of actually getting stoned and engaging in mad sex was way too far fetched to even think about. Besides, if I ever did have the courage to wander into such forbidden territory, it probably would be the end of me for all time to come. Then, again . . .

One particular steaming hot summer day stands clear in my mind. The humidity was so high that without air conditioning a person had to find creative ways to escape the heat’s relentless hold or collapse. Some neighbors took to sleeping with their family and pets on outside porches or in the backyard. If they didn’t have those amenities, they’d get into their car and sleep near Lake Michigan to take advantage of cool breezes floating off the polluted water. Those that just didn’t give a rip slept in their cars with the engines running and air conditioners on full blast.

It was still early that night and, from past experience, I decided not to even try and sleep. My home was located near an elevated section of the Red Line train that disappeared into the subway as it approached downtown Chicago. Each time the train rumbled by, I could feel the ground shake under my house and sometimes it was so bad I’d worry pictures would fall off the walls. Late evening was always the worst. The straining wooden supports and screaming steel rails outside my bedroom window made an awful racket but, as with most things, after a while, I grew oblivious to the sounds and they went unnoticed, just minor interferences with sweet dreams that frequently ended with nocturnal emissions, the closest I ever got to experience sex.

But that night, after washing, I made myself as presentable as possible, carefully avoiding any attempt to dress hippy so as not to appear foolish because it was impossible for a freak to fit in the social scene. After locking my front door, I strolled to the entrance of the 35th Street Red Line station. Because my balance wasn’t very good, I was forced to hold tightly to a metal stair railing with its gray peeling