J.K. Chenevert, BSCJ, CPS
Bio
Stories (4/0)
Suicide Square (Pt. 4)
~ Chapter Seven ~ I’m driving now; the powerful reverberation of the 365 hp, 460 cubic inch engine stuffed under the hood of the Lincoln and the winding leaf and snow littered roads of south central Massachusetts, cold, dark, and vacant; provides brief, sporadic moments of quietude as the memories of the chaotic events that occurred earlier in Auburn quickly fade, only to be overwhelmingly replaced and drowned out by the deafening clamor of a mind possessed by an ungovernable rage, a rage that rises up within me without warning like volcanic bile. A rage inspired by very particular life experiences and behaviors, and which took on a life of its own. Toxic, unimpeded, and unhindered, my rage easily and quite readily transfers from one thought to the next, from topic to topic and ultimately from person to person; impacting all relationships with others. My rage is a highly skilled and masterful predator. I am the meal on which it insatiably feeds; it is the overwhelming and oft times devastating burden I place upon others. Critical, judgmental and extremely protective of me, it manifests itself in a variety of forms; from abject emotional, verbal, and physical violence to sheer inner terror and unsurmountable panic, anxiety, and stress. Ultimately and eventually, it subsides into a profound and profuse state of shame and guilt over being in such an untenable and uncontrollable mental condition and a great sadness over what it all means.
By J.K. Chenevert, BSCJ, CPS5 years ago in Criminal
Suicide Square (Pt. 3)
~ Chapter Four ~ “Suicide Square,” in its day, was a remarkable cacophony of engineering idiotcracy that was a true sight to behold, never mind attempt to maneuver across safely. Imagine, if you can, six intersecting streets consisting of: a freeway on ramp, a freeway off ramp, two major arteries and two secondary streets all converging, intersecting, like knife slices in a pie, into this kind of free-for-all, demolition derby-like madness called Kelly Square. No signs, no traffic lights, no islands, no rotaries, no directions, no suggestions… just fucking drive… or don’t… but if ya don’t, you are liable to get plowed into or run the fuck over, so just drive… and pray, if you are so inclined. My mom, back in the day, closed her eyes and floored the goddamn gas to get from one side to the other… no shit. She scared the living shit out of me every time she drove, truth be told. And it was here… at ‘Suicide’ Square… I decided in a flash of highly questionable genius or not so questionable stupidity, where I intended to lose those two Worcester cops, at about 80 mph or so… and for a brief second, I wondered… do they have the balls to try the same thing?
By J.K. Chenevert, BSCJ, CPS5 years ago in Criminal
Suicide Square (Pt. 2)
Part One ~ Chapter One ~ “No society can understand itself without looking at its shadow side.” ~ Dr. Gabor Maté ~ So… where to begin. There are periods of my life that are an absolute blur. Some are a total blank. Pieces, fragments and streams of memories collide into others. Dark moments that haunt mercilessly and others that are illuminated by the brightest, purest of lights. I guess, I’ll try to find some continuity and just pick a day that is vivid and crisp in memory and we’ll start from there… Let’s see… December… the winter of 1975… I remember it was cold and windy but sunny when this day began. As I walked the streets, the wind whipped at my face, as I tried to move faster through the run-down and tattered neighborhoods of Worcester’s Main South. The wind, gusty and constant, forced my head down, deeply between my shoulders, causing me to walk a little faster for an instant; like I had somewhere to be or a hope of getting out of the fuckin’ cold any time soon. Thing is, on this day, like many before and many still to come, I hadn’t slept in days, can’t remember when I last ate and didn’t have anywhere to go to escape the cold and bone-chilling wind. I am, instead, walking along the steel grey, granite sidewalks of Worcester, Massachusetts, in nothing but a dungaree jacket and a pair of sneakers, freezing, at Christmastime, with a screwdriver in my pocket, looking for a car to steal to provide me with a warm, safe, isolated, place to spend the night. I had been living on the streets for a while now and when I wasn’t locked up or later on, too high to feel or care about anything, most days typically ended the same way; with me terrified, unable to think cohesively or unable to stop the maddening, racing thoughts that tore through my mind incessantly or escape the feeling of desperation of needing somewhere, anywhere, that felt safe….
By J.K. Chenevert, BSCJ, CPS5 years ago in Criminal
Suicide Square (Pt. 1)
Suicide Square By J. K. Chenevert, BSCJ, CPS ~ Preface ~ The Boy Who Lives at The End of The Hall Upon entering, at first encounter, the hallway, dark and forbidding in its’ seemingly endless depth, would initially appear warm and welcoming to the casual visitor, with its deep, rich, highly-polished, mahogany wood, soothing amber lighting and air of serenity and calmness. The walls are covered in royal purple and gold LeMay fabric and the carpet, a deep burgundy, almost blood-like in color, runs the hallways’ indiscernible length and into its engulfing darkness. As one would move down the corridor, they would encounter a multitude of doors, doors lining each side, of the now darkening hallway—doors in various states of condition and disrepair. Further down, there are grey streaks of black across the walls as noxious mold continuously forms from decades of toxic and intoxicating environments. The antique, disused wooden furniture, so regal and elegant upon first entering the hallway, is now rotting; stained with a myriad of lethal constituents and elements, while the purple and gold LeMay wall covering hangs limp, peeling and eaten away by insects and vermin. The hallway, at this point, to anyone intrepid enough to travel thus far, would feel dead still, near silent, ominous, heavy with expectation and foreboding, the air, thick and stifling… and then suddenly, inexplicably, dread would overcome them, as they instantly realize, they are not alone, as the sounds of creeping lifeforms creak across worn wooden floorboards behind those decaying, uninviting doors… and… on occasion… they may become the unfortunate individual who, inadvertently or with malice, causes one of those doors to fly open abruptly and cause whatever is inside, to come out. Behind one such door, a badly scarred, barricaded door that looks as if someone had tried many times to stop something inexplicably horrible from getting out is the “The boy who lives at the end of the hall.”
By J.K. Chenevert, BSCJ, CPS5 years ago in Criminal