Demons Rising

Demons Rising

Truth be told, I’m a very honest liar, I’ll admit to stretching the truth until it damn near tears in two, yet something or someone possesses my soul when I write and like George Washington, I cannot tell a lie. It’s actually frustrating, my stories are always so tame and mellow, they could use a spicing up. And just when I think I’ve turned the corner and started to mature, an old memory will float by like a lazy cloud and catch my attention, then attack my mind like a Bald Eagle swooping down on a trout.

For you that have read a few of my stories, I may or may not of had a somewhat heated temper, think molten lava, the anabolic steroids probably a quick trigger, but I was a bit of a scrapper in my youth. Not to say I wasn’t angelic in ways, but trouble seemed to find me around most every corner. In this here yarn,(I’ve been watching way too many westerns lately) I’ll recount a couple instances that on one hand I’m proud of, and in the other, well, fuck it, they started it.

My big mouth little brother and his even smaller friend, John Pittman, got me into a wing dinger at TeWinkle Park, much to my chagrin, but the other fella felt much worse after we tangled. We were enjoying a game of over the line, it was the summer before my eighth grade year, and this frump of a high schooler took the ball away from John. I could hear Matt yelling at the guy to give us the ball back, but he wouldn’t acquiesce, so Matt told him, his brother, me, was going to beat the shit out of him.

The kid was at least thirty pounds or more and a head bigger than me and knowing he was in high school I wasn’t ready for this. The kid walked up to me, looked me over and laughed, and he probably thought he had that right. He had our only ball in his hand and I asked nicely for him to give it back, when he laughed again and launched it as far as he could into the bushes.

Like a jungle cat I attacked him before he could prepare and the onslaught was on. I got him in the ground, pinned his arms with my knees and started wailing on his fat, pompous mug. After smacking him quite a few times I let him up with a promise he could leave unscathed, but he came after me. I had a bit of confidence by then, got him in the ground again, pinned his arms in the same fashion, but this time I wanted to end it, so I bloodied his nose and his lip.

Figuring that was that, I let him up with the same promise, but he still had idle thoughts he’d get the better of me and came again. I repeated the same scenario and this time blackened his eye, and really bloodied him up good. He was almost unconscious this time and John had fetched the ball, so he left with his face rearranged and his tail between his legs. He started cussing at us as he left, but I took a few steps his way and he ran as fast as his soft, chubby legs could carry him.

My last fight, not counting Matt of course, was my sophomore year at Mater Dei. The bell had rung and we were all walking to our next class, when a punk ass freshman decided he’d knock my books out of my hand. I didn’t know him but apparently he knew me. I asked him nicely to pick up my books, thinking maybe this was an accident, but he dropped a ‘fuck you’ on me, which I didn’t appreciate or, in my opinion, didn’t deserve.

We were right near the deans office, on a brick path, people walking to and fro to get to class. He swung first, and honestly to this day I have no idea why, but my quick trigger went off and I mounted him like a stuffed moose head on a wall. As we were grappling I was swinging from the bleachers and he was under me struggling to get loose. I had somehow gotten ahold of his hair and was bashing his head in the bricks when a few seniors pulled me off.

Girls were turning away, even a few friends were stunned by my animalistic savagery and the poor kid was not moving. The back of his head was gushing blood, his face bruised and beaten and I hadn’t realized what I did. It was so quick, so one sided, but I scared myself that day. The deans and security came running over to admonish me and I presumed hold me in shackles until the police arrived, but the seniors that pulled me off swore the other kid started it. I still got detention, the deans called the parents, and it was a big to do.

I pleaded my innocence, yet I was told there was no excuse for my attack. I didn’t throw the first punch, I didn’t knock his books from his hands, I was fourteen and thoroughly confused. How was I to be blamed for his misfortune? Somewhere inside that young brain of mine, I knew I had gone to far, I had no control over my inner demons, and that cruel side of me could never come out again. It was ugly, mean, ruthless and I was just walking to a class. The trigger was so quick Billy the Kid would have walked away.

I haven’t been in a fight since, I’ve swallowed my pride and walked away a few times, for I have no idea if that inner beast still lives inside me. I’m a care free, happy go lucky fella, but somewhere buried deep, for fifty years, lies a dark side I never want to see light again. It honestly scares me, that I have that brutality inside me.

I’m sure we all possess and bury the ugliness inside us, praying it will never rise from the depths again. My thoughts are exposing them as I have today, let’s the demons know I’m aware of them and they’ll seek even darker places to hide. I’m in hopes that opening up these ugly truths for the world to see, enables others to do the same. I feel no shame in revealing my demons, for I believe honesty will set me free.

Crack Egg Out