You Know What They Do To Guys Like Us In Prison

When I was six, my parents taught me that good boys come home in time. New Jersey was dangerous, which I now know is true, but back then I didn't believe them. It was home, and home was safe. One night I was late home, having been out exploring with my imaginary friends, rushing to save the princess. They scolded me and hugged me. The next morning, my mother turned on the dusty television in our dark living room, the closed dank velvet curtains of which were a permanent fixture. Another boy, six years old like me, had gone missing.
Until I was twelve, I was forbidden to go creeping around in the dark, like every other kid on my street.
When I was seven, I made my first real friend. Her name was Missy, and she wore her blonde fairy tale length hair in shining plaits. I went to her house and admired the light, the sculptures collected by her parents from far away places. I adored her dog; his name was Jack and all three of us walked in the park where the body of a boy was discovered. At school, we strolled across the grey concrete playground together, fighting the dragons and demons. My imaginary demons were nothing compared to the burly red faced boys who pushed me to the floor and called me names for being friends with a girl. A stern teacher with a long brown skirt and steely expression told me to play with the boys. I couldn't kick the ball around with the bullies, so I climbed the strong oak tree who held me in its tenacious arms. In the shadow that the mighty tree cast, Missy played with dolls with the other girls. Her doll wore a white wedding gown, and she had positioned a spring daisy in its plastic hands. Another doll in a cotton suit carried the bride in its arms. She laughed and smiled.
When I was thirteen, I saw Missy carried by the red faced boy that made me fall the same way the Ken doll had carried his Barbie. I shrunk into the shadows of the graffitied concrete wall, peering around the corner as they kissed.
When I was fourteen, I kissed a girl myself. Her name was Lucy. She was eighteen, and her arms were intricately inked. She told me she wanted me. She said she could teach me. I followed her, holding her hand with chipped red nail polish. We fucked in the dark alleyway behind the grocery store. Her dyed black hair was soaked in sweat after, and I remember a bead roll down her forehead before she swiped it away. Then a man came. His name was Cain. Lucy gasped his name as he saw us. I heard her protest. He's just a kid, she said. He punched me in the face once. All I could see was black for a few seconds as I staggered backwards. He told me to fuck off in a dangerously low tone. Lucy screamed in terror as I ran. Her scream was cut short after a few moments.
I stole Missy's dog. Jack. He was old. I slit his throat. I wanted to save the poor creature from the liars and the hypocrites. I skinned it and put the skin on her doorstep. I knocked and ran, like it was a child's game. A girl with cropped blonde hair and a disgustingly short skirt opened the door. Her face was caked in garish color. She screamed. Not like Lucy had screamed, but still. Awful. I grew to hate the sound. So when I first killed, my first real murder, my parents, a single bullet sufficed. I saved them from the horror that it is to be contained, protected, rejected. I saved them from life. It was my duty to do so. Because death is what you make it; either way, it must be a hell of a lot more peaceful.

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