Little Boy Shamed

By Emmy Bergeron

Getting away with murder, a psychopath eludes detectives. Each killing is unique with no obvious pattern. He continues to kill those who shame him, and the voice inside his head encourages him.

The story of Jack is a frightening look at what could happen when your words deeply hurt someone. Chilling.
Amy G.

Dystopian, demonic, vengeful murders to keep you up at night.
Jackie I.

So real, you can imagine the murders slowly stealing your soul. Emmy makes you feel like you’re the one doing the killing.
David V.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665743082

Emmy Bergeron

Emmy grew up on a small dairy farm in Minnesota. Her mother and father fostered Emmy’s imagination with their “can do” attitude. Emmy has been writing short stories, children’s stories and poetry ever since she learned her ABC’s – some of them published. Her novels and poetry are riveting, surprising, clever and provocative. Her second novel, “Little Boy Shamed,” will have you crave reading more of her stories. [e-mail]

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

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WHEN I’M BORN

In a few months, I will be born and my name will be Jack, but I’ll learn to answer to hey kid, dumb shit, idiot, stupid jackass, jack-off, jack shit and a lot of other names my mother will call me. My mother’s name is Betty. She has mousey brown hair she pulls back in a bun. She drinks and smokes a lot. She’s not a very good dresser, usually pea-green, polyester slacks and a cream colored button down, stained blouse, but she always manages to have a new boyfriend around.

When I was about six months in utero, mom tried to abort me. She had her then current boyfriend, who knows, it could have even been my dad, kick her in the stomach. Well, it didn’t work, but where I was lying, he did break my right leg, just below my knee. It hurt really badly. I felt afraid and trapped unable to get out or get away from the pain. I cried ‘Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!’ No one heard me. "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! But, still, no one heard me.

I’ll walk with a slight limp. One day, I heard someone say I’d probably be born with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, but I don’t know what that means, yet. I do know that when my mother gets drunk, I get dizzy and upset. I feel sick. I don’t like it. Some days it’s hard to think, but I do think I hate her. She’ll be sorry someday for not caring even when I wasn’t born yet.

The doctor will tell my mom that I’d have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome that will result in learning difficulties, and I’ll need more education in daily living skills. He will tell her that I will probably have delirium tremens, the DT’s, from alcohol withdrawal if she doesn’t stop drinking while carrying me. I think she won’t be listening. I can feel her resentful attitude in my little unborn heart already. She’ll care for her mangy, disgusting old cat more than she’ll care for me.

The doctors will say the delivery went smoothly, but it will scare me, all scrunched up and banging my head trying to get out. Again, I’ll feel trapped and afraid. I will be born a month early and spend my first few weeks in an incubator. The incubator will be warm, but the feeding tube in my nose will really hurt. That will only last a week. The doctors will tell my mom that my right leg is misshapen, but they can’t fix it then, and it will have to stay that way.

Only nurses will touch me and hold me and cuddle me during my withdrawal. My body will be tense and rigid, my crying will sound like screams, sometimes someone’s touch will make me tremble, my reflexes will be hyperactive even to sound.

Where is my mother? Why are others hugging and kissing me when my mother is not? She won’t want to. I will already know the anguish of not being cuddled by my mother, the feeling of abandonment, and the heartache of neglect. The only words I will hear are from the nurses who will care for me, say how tiny and cute I am, like a little doll with intense blue eyes. They will say, It’s too bad he has to go through this, poor little guy. I will feel their concern for me. That will be my only motive to survive.

All my life, I’ll have problems. I’ll be verbally and physically abused by a mother who didn’t want me. So many times I won’t be fed. My tummy will hurt with hunger. My unchanged diapers will cause such a rash that I bleed. I’ll cry a lot because it hurts, but that will just make everyone angry and be rough with me. Won’t anyone love me the way I would like to be loved? I think I’ll hate her.

I’ll be clumsy and uncoordinated. That Fetal Alcohol Syndrome thing will cause me many problems growing up. Sometimes I will cry when I fall or when someone picks on me. My mom will call me a big cry baby. She won’t kiss my boo-boos, even bad ones that hurt so much I cry. I’ll hear it again, and again, ‘you big cry baby.’ I’ll cry because I’ll be afraid of the boogie man she’ll tell me about. She will tell me he lives in my closet and will get me if I don’t behave. She will tell me they eat little boys who don’t behave. Then she will call me a big cry baby again. I will learn not to cry when she hits me for whatever she thinks I will do wrong. I’ll think I’ll know what’s right and wrong, but to me, right is sometimes wrong for her. I think I’ll hate her for that.

In a few years, I’ll walk into her bedroom to see what all that moaning is about. I will think her boyfriend was hurting her. She and her boyfriend will jump out of bed, naked, and chase me down the hall to my room. I will be so terrified. They will lock me in. There won’t be anything to do except lie on my bed and dream about someday being a normal kid. I won’t know what I did that day that was so wrong. At least this time, she won’t hit me. That night I’ll go without dinner again. She’ll be too drunk to remember what happened or what I saw. I’ll hate her for that.

My mother will lock me in my room many times and blame me that her current boyfriend abandoned her. I’ll have such low self-esteem that I’ll be afraid to look at her in case she doesn’t like it. Sometimes, I’ll wet the bed. She will yell at me and beat me with a belt. She’ll say that at my age, I should be able to hold it all night. I can’t help it, it just happens. I will hate her.

Someday, I’ll be three years old. She will tell me there will be no birthday celebrations, there is no Easter Bunny, there is no Santa Claus, and Christmas is just a reason for people to buy things they didn’t need. I won’t need anything, she will say. And, I wasn’t supposed to cry about it. I’ll hate her for that. I’ll have no brothers or sisters to talk to. I’ll never forget how I will be treated. All I will ever want is to be loved, but it won’t happen. One day, she’ll tell me that no one, not any woman could ever love me because of my limp and that my clumsiness is something no one could put up with, even her.

My room will be very small with one dirty, bare window. It will smell like old stale urine for every time I wet the bed. Every night in my bed, I’ll create my own little world where everybody loves me, and those who don’t will not be in my fantasy. I’ll feel a sense of detachment from the rest of the world, but that will be OK. I’ll have my fantasy world where I belong and life is good every day. Over the years, my social and emotional development will be created in my fantasy world. I will have fantasies about getting even for every time I will be shamed.

First grade will be the hardest for me, not so much for being scared the first day, but for how badly I will be shamed over and over again. I’ll be a slow learner and made to write many time, I will listen to my teacher. In all my school years, it will be extremely difficult for me. I will have no one to talk to about this, not even my mother.

My first grade teacher will be Sister Rosalind. I will hate her. Some days I will go to school in pants I had wet the night before. The worst, though, will be when I wet my pants in school. Sister Rosalind will make me stand in front of the class and tell them what I did. Everyone will laugh at me. I will try so hard not to cry because I am so ashamed. She will tell me to go and sit on a hard, red plastic chair in front of the class. I will have to sit there all day. I will always hate her for shaming me. Someday, she’ll be sorry.

All through my grade school years, my classmates will tease me and call me names like gimpy, limpy and wimpy limpy. I will sit by myself in the cafeteria and I will be as quiet as I can be so no one pays attention to me. The doctors will be right. I will have learning difficulties and need help in my daily living skills. I will be very shy and withdrawn, except in my fantasy world.

Then, when I’m a little older, maybe thirteen or fourteen, I’ll have a wet dream. I won’t understand then why that happened. I won’t even know it happened. My mother will go crazy and threaten to cut off my little winkie if it ever happens again. She will complain about having to wash the sheets, but sometimes she won’t wash them for weeks. I will feel as though she will reject me and my sexuality, a very important part of me. I will hate her. She’ll be sorry someday.

High school will be no better. I won’t have any close male friends. Most of them will be into sports, but I won’t be very athletic. I’ll be too clumsy like my mom will tell me I’ll be. And, forget about having a girlfriend. They will be the worst, laughing at me, calling me names, shoving me, saying I’m ugly. I won’t be ugly. I’ll have light brown hair, deep blue, almost violet eyes, thin and about 5’10 when I’m an adult. They will treat me just like my mother will treat me. I’ll hate them. I’ll never forget how I will be treated and how ashamed