BITER: A SMort Story
1.
My first memory is of my mother standing at the sink. The morning light seeps in through the window in the kitchen, turning her soft yellow. She’s washing her hands and glancing at me. She seems puzzled, as though she’s trying to make up her mind about something. When her hands become visible above the lip of the stainless-steel basin, I notice the blood dripping from her fingers, seeping through the washcloth she holds like a red mitten.
Her mouth moves without speaking as she looks at me, and I realize for the first time that I’m sitting on the floor as she towers above me. The tears fall from her adult face, striking the tile beside me.
“What’s wrong Mommy,” my three-year old self asks.
“Nothing, Baby. Nothing’s wrong.”
She bends down to pick me up, and I feel her hands jitter as they cup underneath my arms. She places me on her hip, favoring her good hand.
I remember leaning in to hug my mother, and her short stifled shriek as my arms closed around her neck. I remember her dropping me, and running from the room.
The police came later; my father was missing, and the windows of my bedroom flashed red and blue all night. We moved here shortly after that day, and it is my only surviving memory of that place, so many miles and years away.
2.
“What’s wrong Mommy,” my three-year old self asks.
“Nothing, Baby. Nothing’s wrong.”
She bends down to pick me up, and I feel her hands jitter as they cup underneath my arms. She places me on her hip, favoring her good hand.
I remember leaning in to hug my mother, and her short stifled shriek as my arms closed around her neck. I remember her dropping me, and running from the room.
The police came later; my father was missing, and the windows of my bedroom flashed red and blue all night. We moved here shortly after that day, and it is my only surviving memory of that place, so many miles and years away.
2.
“Scott?!?”
“Yeah, Ma? What is it” I yell down the stairs.
“Is she up there with you? You know the rules.”
I look at my girlfriend Lucy, sitting on the floor of my room, the black and red board game between us, moves momentarily suspended. She smiles at me.
“Ma, we are literally up here playing checkers.”
“I don’t care what you’re doing up there, she is not to be in your room, whether I’m here or not,” she yells, and with a change in tone, “Good afternoon, Luce!”
“Hey Mrs. M!” she replies, “I’ll bring him down now.”
Lucy starts to get up, and I moan my disapproval.
“Just stop fighting it Scott, we can play downstairs.”
“It’s the principle Lu,” is my standard reply, “We’re seniors in high school for God’s sake. It’s not like we even fool around here anyway.”
“She’s your Mom, Scott. She just wants what’s best, and doesn’t want to worry about you.”
We round the stairs, checkerboard in hand as evidence of my retained innocence.
“What’s there to worry about? I’m graduating, with Honors, and I’m already accepted into college. What else do I need to prove?
“That she’s still your Mom, and you’re still her son. Cut her some slack Scott, she knows she’s losing you soon. It can’t be easy on her.”
Of course Lucy’s right. Leaving for school was going to be hard on my mother, as she’d be in this empty house for months on end. After my father walking out on her, it was only natural to see why my impending departure would be difficult.
We reach the bottom of the stairs, and Lucy skips down the hallway to greet my mother. The hug and say hello, and I realize how happy I am that the two women in my life get along so well.
I put the checkerboard down on the kitchen table. The plastic pieces rattle a bit as I drop the board the last few inches.
“Are there any more groceries in the car?” I ask.
“Just a few bags, I can…”
“Not a problem, Ma,” I cut in, “I’ll get them.”
I leave my Mother and Lucy and step out onto the front porch. It’s a short trip to the car, and I’m wearing jeans and a sweater, but the Minnesota cold is biting as I reach the car. In every direction, the snow dominates the landscape. Our house is an old farm on the outskirts of a small suburb. We don’t have cable or internet access.
Lucy’s house is at least five miles away, but we still attend the same high school. It’s borderline desolate, but I can’t imagine living back in New Jersey like we used to. We moved when I was four, but my Mother will talk once and awhile about how busy it was in Red Bank. How much confusion existed there. How everything is so much simpler here.
I grab the two bags from the car, and walk back to the house, fingers starting to burn from the cold, and step back inside.
3.
“Yeah, Ma? What is it” I yell down the stairs.
“Is she up there with you? You know the rules.”
I look at my girlfriend Lucy, sitting on the floor of my room, the black and red board game between us, moves momentarily suspended. She smiles at me.
“Ma, we are literally up here playing checkers.”
“I don’t care what you’re doing up there, she is not to be in your room, whether I’m here or not,” she yells, and with a change in tone, “Good afternoon, Luce!”
“Hey Mrs. M!” she replies, “I’ll bring him down now.”
Lucy starts to get up, and I moan my disapproval.
“Just stop fighting it Scott, we can play downstairs.”
“It’s the principle Lu,” is my standard reply, “We’re seniors in high school for God’s sake. It’s not like we even fool around here anyway.”
“She’s your Mom, Scott. She just wants what’s best, and doesn’t want to worry about you.”
We round the stairs, checkerboard in hand as evidence of my retained innocence.
“What’s there to worry about? I’m graduating, with Honors, and I’m already accepted into college. What else do I need to prove?
“That she’s still your Mom, and you’re still her son. Cut her some slack Scott, she knows she’s losing you soon. It can’t be easy on her.”
Of course Lucy’s right. Leaving for school was going to be hard on my mother, as she’d be in this empty house for months on end. After my father walking out on her, it was only natural to see why my impending departure would be difficult.
We reach the bottom of the stairs, and Lucy skips down the hallway to greet my mother. The hug and say hello, and I realize how happy I am that the two women in my life get along so well.
I put the checkerboard down on the kitchen table. The plastic pieces rattle a bit as I drop the board the last few inches.
“Are there any more groceries in the car?” I ask.
“Just a few bags, I can…”
“Not a problem, Ma,” I cut in, “I’ll get them.”
I leave my Mother and Lucy and step out onto the front porch. It’s a short trip to the car, and I’m wearing jeans and a sweater, but the Minnesota cold is biting as I reach the car. In every direction, the snow dominates the landscape. Our house is an old farm on the outskirts of a small suburb. We don’t have cable or internet access.
Lucy’s house is at least five miles away, but we still attend the same high school. It’s borderline desolate, but I can’t imagine living back in New Jersey like we used to. We moved when I was four, but my Mother will talk once and awhile about how busy it was in Red Bank. How much confusion existed there. How everything is so much simpler here.
I grab the two bags from the car, and walk back to the house, fingers starting to burn from the cold, and step back inside.
3.
The dream doesn’t come often.
I’m in an attic. The ceiling comes to a point above me, and the exposed wood forms a triangular hallway. It’s warm here, and I can feel the rough floorboards beneath the soles of my bare feet.
I’m standing at full height, even though the ceiling can only be five feet high at the most. There is a circular window at the far end of the room. The light flooding into the attic is orange, and with every step toward it, it moves to a deeper red.
A familiar trunk sits below the window. I can see that it is not latched, and some sort of fabric sticks out on the side; a floral print, some type of dress material.
By the time I reach the trunk, running my hands over its cold, brass corners, the window is pulsing red. My fingers find the fabric, rubbing the material until my hands feel the heat of friction.
I begin to open the trunk and a smell like almonds mixed with iron dances out, teasing my nostrils slightly. My jaw tightens, and the cords in my neck seize up. My eyes spin wildly in their sockets, and my entire body convulses, as if I need to vomit, but without the sick cramping in my stomach.
My head hits the floor, and I can feel foam rising to my lips.
Suddenly I’m standing again, looking down at the open trunk. Its walls are lined with a dark velvety material, and the fabric on the underside of the lid is torn, like something was fighting to get out.
At the bottom, as always, are the dolls. Cracked faces and black eyes stare blankly to the sky. Limbs are askew and often missing, heaped in piles of empty grasps. Only one doll is complete, and free of the marks of neglect. It looks up at me, arms inviting, its pink floral dress finely pressed, and blinks once.
I wake up with a start; face down in my bed, a warm pool of saliva dripping from my cheek.
4.
I’m in an attic. The ceiling comes to a point above me, and the exposed wood forms a triangular hallway. It’s warm here, and I can feel the rough floorboards beneath the soles of my bare feet.
I’m standing at full height, even though the ceiling can only be five feet high at the most. There is a circular window at the far end of the room. The light flooding into the attic is orange, and with every step toward it, it moves to a deeper red.
A familiar trunk sits below the window. I can see that it is not latched, and some sort of fabric sticks out on the side; a floral print, some type of dress material.
By the time I reach the trunk, running my hands over its cold, brass corners, the window is pulsing red. My fingers find the fabric, rubbing the material until my hands feel the heat of friction.
I begin to open the trunk and a smell like almonds mixed with iron dances out, teasing my nostrils slightly. My jaw tightens, and the cords in my neck seize up. My eyes spin wildly in their sockets, and my entire body convulses, as if I need to vomit, but without the sick cramping in my stomach.
My head hits the floor, and I can feel foam rising to my lips.
Suddenly I’m standing again, looking down at the open trunk. Its walls are lined with a dark velvety material, and the fabric on the underside of the lid is torn, like something was fighting to get out.
At the bottom, as always, are the dolls. Cracked faces and black eyes stare blankly to the sky. Limbs are askew and often missing, heaped in piles of empty grasps. Only one doll is complete, and free of the marks of neglect. It looks up at me, arms inviting, its pink floral dress finely pressed, and blinks once.
I wake up with a start; face down in my bed, a warm pool of saliva dripping from my cheek.
4.
The only light in the dining room came from the fake candle arrangement at the center of the table. Amidst the sound of fork and knife on plate, the wind batters the house, screeching occasionally through dinner.
My mom was being unusually quiet this evening. Normally, dinner was like an endless job interview for a position I already held. She would rattle off question after question about my day, how school was, or what Rebecca and her family were up to.
Since we moved out here, my mother hadn’t left the house much. She made the occasional trip to the supermarket in Downtown Deer River, where she would make some money selling homemade jam and preserves. She receives a check each month from some agency, and that allows her to not need a job.
“What’s up, Ma?”
“Nothing, Scott. I’m sorry. How was your day?”
Her response is robotic, making me more concerned. I’m pretty convinced that my Mom suffers from some level of depression. She rarely drinks, and she never talks about the past. The past few months had been good though, so I’m shocked to see her take such a turn.
“Don’t lie to me. I know something is wrong. Let me help you with it.”
When she looks up, her eyes are watering.
“You can’t,” she says, digging back into her salad. Her short curly hair is my only companion at the now silent table, and soon, she gets up and goes to her room. I hear her crying through my wall, and I wonder where my father is, and what he did that made my mother such a mess.
I walk back downstairs and grab a book off of the shelf. The phone rings, and I’m heading to the library with Rebecca to do some “homework” almost immediately. Somehow I know I’ve made a dangerous decision, but I kiss my sleeping mother on her tear-stained cheek anyway, and walk out the door as myself for the last time.
5.
My mom was being unusually quiet this evening. Normally, dinner was like an endless job interview for a position I already held. She would rattle off question after question about my day, how school was, or what Rebecca and her family were up to.
Since we moved out here, my mother hadn’t left the house much. She made the occasional trip to the supermarket in Downtown Deer River, where she would make some money selling homemade jam and preserves. She receives a check each month from some agency, and that allows her to not need a job.
“What’s up, Ma?”
“Nothing, Scott. I’m sorry. How was your day?”
Her response is robotic, making me more concerned. I’m pretty convinced that my Mom suffers from some level of depression. She rarely drinks, and she never talks about the past. The past few months had been good though, so I’m shocked to see her take such a turn.
“Don’t lie to me. I know something is wrong. Let me help you with it.”
When she looks up, her eyes are watering.
“You can’t,” she says, digging back into her salad. Her short curly hair is my only companion at the now silent table, and soon, she gets up and goes to her room. I hear her crying through my wall, and I wonder where my father is, and what he did that made my mother such a mess.
I walk back downstairs and grab a book off of the shelf. The phone rings, and I’m heading to the library with Rebecca to do some “homework” almost immediately. Somehow I know I’ve made a dangerous decision, but I kiss my sleeping mother on her tear-stained cheek anyway, and walk out the door as myself for the last time.
5.
Lucy is waiting by the door when I pull up, and she runs out to the car as quickly as she can. The sun is down and the temperature has dropped substantially in the February night.
“Hey you,” she starts, giving me a quick peck on the cheek.
I can feel the cold outside on her lips, as the kiss lingers like breath on glass.
“So what’s going on?” she continues, “Why the rush to the library?”
“I made a decision today. I want to know about my father.”
“Why now?”
“My mother was a mess tonight. I feel like she’s getting worse. I need to know what happened, and I can’t ask her; she won’t tell me.”
We drive in silence for a bit, the snow tires biting into the hardpack, creating enough control to drive in this near-arctic town.
The Deer Park library is ahead, a soft glow emanating from its many windows, and we pull in.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
For the first time I can tell she is afraid, and it takes me aback.
“Wh-what?” I reply, as we reach the door and walk inside.
“I’m just saying… it might be really bad. He might have hit her or something, or maybe he’s got a new family now. Do you really need to know that?”
I though about it for a second, but I already knew the answer. I simply needed to know.
“It’s more important that I know who I am; who he was.”
She nods, but it’s a nod of reluctance, and we make our way to the computer desks.
A few quick Google searches produce no results. Entering “Kevin Marsden” into the search field brings only a few hundred Facebook pages. Narrowing down the results, I start adding terms like “Red Bank,” “Red Bank NJ,” “Alice and Kevin Marsden,” “Alice and Kevin Marsden Red Bank.”
The last search kicks back only a few results. A few of the links refer to race results for some marathon in Long Branch, New Jersey. But one is a newspaper article from fifteen years earlier.
I click on the link, directing me to the Asbury Park Press. There’s a picture of my mother and a man who looks like the descriptions I’ve heard of my father.
I scroll down the page, and hear my life as it cracks apart.
6.
It’s hard to tell whether I’m parked correctly between the snow and the tears in my eyes. I throw it in park, and take the keys out of the ignition, opening the door with my left hand.
As soon as I step into the night, I can feel the water on my face crystallizing as I rush to the front door. I’ve been out of the house for a grand total of a half-an-hour, but in that short time, my view of everything is shattered.
The house looks like a cave, not the mountain it once was. It is a hole, a place of secrets and darkness. I get to the front door, and swing into the hallway. The lights are dark, and a sole candle sits on the dining room table.
It sits, jutting out of a cupcake, next to an empty rocks glass and a half-finished bottle of Bourbon. My mother has her head in her hands; she is trying to hold it together, and I’m glad I made Lucy go home before I did this.
“What are you doing home already?” she manages, speech starting to slur.
“What are you doing?” It’s more of an accusation than a question.
“Noth-Nothing. I was hungry. It was dark…”
“Bullshit.”
“No…,” her voice drags off.
“Bullshit. I know, I know everything. I know about dad and I know about…,” I choke up a bit, not sure where its coming from, “…about Amanda. What I did.”
She looks up at me now.
“Today was her birthday,” she starts, voice in tatters, “she was so beautiful…”
The anger that emanates from me is unlike anything I’ve experienced, and it shocks her into sitting up, rigid, as if she’s anticipating a hit from me, as if she is afraid.
“My last name! My father killing himself! What I did, What I DID!”
My shoulders slump from the weight of it, and my voice become small and pleading.
“How could you let me do it?” I ask, “How could you both let me?”
“I’m sorry Scott…” she begins, but I’m across the room with the bottle of Jack in my hand and it’s flying through the air instantly, exploding across the dining room wall and my mother has her head in her hands and she shrieks and suddenly I’m three in that kitchen all those years ago and my head starts to spin, body locking up and I’m on the floor wrapped up in all of it, the muscles twitching like hot electric current, my teeth locked in agony as my screams become grunts and I know that this must be the feeling from the nightmare as the seizure takes my sight and I feel the bile and foam cross my lips and she’s over me screaming and screaming and it goes black as black as black on the darkest night of all the moonless years…
7.
Little Boy Bites His Baby-Sister to Death While Parents Sleep, Father goes Missing.
“Hey you,” she starts, giving me a quick peck on the cheek.
I can feel the cold outside on her lips, as the kiss lingers like breath on glass.
“So what’s going on?” she continues, “Why the rush to the library?”
“I made a decision today. I want to know about my father.”
“Why now?”
“My mother was a mess tonight. I feel like she’s getting worse. I need to know what happened, and I can’t ask her; she won’t tell me.”
We drive in silence for a bit, the snow tires biting into the hardpack, creating enough control to drive in this near-arctic town.
The Deer Park library is ahead, a soft glow emanating from its many windows, and we pull in.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
For the first time I can tell she is afraid, and it takes me aback.
“Wh-what?” I reply, as we reach the door and walk inside.
“I’m just saying… it might be really bad. He might have hit her or something, or maybe he’s got a new family now. Do you really need to know that?”
I though about it for a second, but I already knew the answer. I simply needed to know.
“It’s more important that I know who I am; who he was.”
She nods, but it’s a nod of reluctance, and we make our way to the computer desks.
A few quick Google searches produce no results. Entering “Kevin Marsden” into the search field brings only a few hundred Facebook pages. Narrowing down the results, I start adding terms like “Red Bank,” “Red Bank NJ,” “Alice and Kevin Marsden,” “Alice and Kevin Marsden Red Bank.”
The last search kicks back only a few results. A few of the links refer to race results for some marathon in Long Branch, New Jersey. But one is a newspaper article from fifteen years earlier.
I click on the link, directing me to the Asbury Park Press. There’s a picture of my mother and a man who looks like the descriptions I’ve heard of my father.
I scroll down the page, and hear my life as it cracks apart.
6.
It’s hard to tell whether I’m parked correctly between the snow and the tears in my eyes. I throw it in park, and take the keys out of the ignition, opening the door with my left hand.
As soon as I step into the night, I can feel the water on my face crystallizing as I rush to the front door. I’ve been out of the house for a grand total of a half-an-hour, but in that short time, my view of everything is shattered.
The house looks like a cave, not the mountain it once was. It is a hole, a place of secrets and darkness. I get to the front door, and swing into the hallway. The lights are dark, and a sole candle sits on the dining room table.
It sits, jutting out of a cupcake, next to an empty rocks glass and a half-finished bottle of Bourbon. My mother has her head in her hands; she is trying to hold it together, and I’m glad I made Lucy go home before I did this.
“What are you doing home already?” she manages, speech starting to slur.
“What are you doing?” It’s more of an accusation than a question.
“Noth-Nothing. I was hungry. It was dark…”
“Bullshit.”
“No…,” her voice drags off.
“Bullshit. I know, I know everything. I know about dad and I know about…,” I choke up a bit, not sure where its coming from, “…about Amanda. What I did.”
She looks up at me now.
“Today was her birthday,” she starts, voice in tatters, “she was so beautiful…”
The anger that emanates from me is unlike anything I’ve experienced, and it shocks her into sitting up, rigid, as if she’s anticipating a hit from me, as if she is afraid.
“My last name! My father killing himself! What I did, What I DID!”
My shoulders slump from the weight of it, and my voice become small and pleading.
“How could you let me do it?” I ask, “How could you both let me?”
“I’m sorry Scott…” she begins, but I’m across the room with the bottle of Jack in my hand and it’s flying through the air instantly, exploding across the dining room wall and my mother has her head in her hands and she shrieks and suddenly I’m three in that kitchen all those years ago and my head starts to spin, body locking up and I’m on the floor wrapped up in all of it, the muscles twitching like hot electric current, my teeth locked in agony as my screams become grunts and I know that this must be the feeling from the nightmare as the seizure takes my sight and I feel the bile and foam cross my lips and she’s over me screaming and screaming and it goes black as black as black on the darkest night of all the moonless years…
7.
Little Boy Bites His Baby-Sister to Death While Parents Sleep, Father goes Missing.
Red Bank police are investigating a bizarre death of a newborn girl. Most likely, the baby girl was killed by her own brother, who was just three years old. The tragedy happened while the parents of the two children were sleeping.
Forensic experts have already determined that the little girl had died a violent death.
The victim was only 22 days old. The baby arrived at the hospital of the town of Monmouth, in a critical condition. Paramedics were horrified to find bites and bruises all over the child’s body.
Medics took lifesaving efforts, but four hours of struggle for the girl’s life did not help. A forensic expert said that the baby died of a closed cranial injury and a blunt head trauma. It looked like someone had repeatedly bitten various areas of the child’s arms, torso, and head.
A pathologist later determined that the bites had been made by a three-year-old baby, the victim’s own brother.
The mother of the killed child told the police that she and her husband had been drinking together and fell asleep. When they woke up, they saw their son laying on the floor convulsing. When the mother got up to pacify the child, she noticed the body of her daughter on the floor as well. The mother, Alice Smith, tried to ensure that her son did not swallow his tongue. Still seizing on the floor, the boy bit down hard on the mother’s finger, drawing blood.
The baby was not moving, nor was she showing any reaction to anything. The woman called the ambulance. The father took the baby girl to the car immediately, driving to the hospital himself, where the child was pronounced dead.
Most likely, the suspected killer perceived his baby sister as a doll, not as a human being, the police believe. The boy has a history of seizures, but none were as extreme as what the parents woke up to that morning. The little child was most likely screaming during the awful game, but the parents did not hear anything while sleeping.
An expert said that the boy might have killed the baby deliberately, out of jealousy, since the parents started paying more attention to her after birth.
8.
When I come to, she’s standing over me, praying. Talking about how I haven’t had a seizure since that day fifteen years ago. Suddenly, details that were missing for so long are replaced with vivid racing memories. She’s asking If I’m okay, that same worried look on her face, and I simply smile at her, lazily. She’s talking about how I changed when the seizures stopped. She’s explaining how much she loves me, her little boy. Nothing matters to me that once did. There’s a look in her eyes of recognition, some remembrance of what she had seen before, and now she’s apologizing. Sorry now about not telling me about my father firing a bullet through his head, about changing our names, about moving us out to this wilderness. About how she never should have tried to escape what our family had become. It comes out her mouth and enters my ears, and I just sit. Listening and smiling on the floor.
Soon I’m in the car, leaving her behind. The car spins its tires from time to time, and a small tremor will razor through my brain and muscles on occasion, but everything is under control. I arrive at Lucy’s house around 10PM, and her parents are asleep. She holds me at the front door, crying in the wrinkles of my sweater. I smile and smile, and let her know that I’m okay. That everything is finally okay. We walk up the stairs to her bedroom, free of rules, and she falls asleep as I rub her back and she tells me how much she loves me. The light on her TV flickers as it gets later, and the programming turns off, the call signs of the local channel illuminating my smile as the images bounce of my exposed teeth.
I think about my purpose, buried so long ago. I think about the stranger I’ve been riding along with for the past twelve years, and the opportunities he’s provided. I think about my mother, and how quickly and quietly she went on the dining room floor, almost allowing it. And I look down at the sleeping girl on the bed. The first bite is always the best, and I move her hair up off the back of her neck before I lean in and begin.
When I come to, she’s standing over me, praying. Talking about how I haven’t had a seizure since that day fifteen years ago. Suddenly, details that were missing for so long are replaced with vivid racing memories. She’s asking If I’m okay, that same worried look on her face, and I simply smile at her, lazily. She’s talking about how I changed when the seizures stopped. She’s explaining how much she loves me, her little boy. Nothing matters to me that once did. There’s a look in her eyes of recognition, some remembrance of what she had seen before, and now she’s apologizing. Sorry now about not telling me about my father firing a bullet through his head, about changing our names, about moving us out to this wilderness. About how she never should have tried to escape what our family had become. It comes out her mouth and enters my ears, and I just sit. Listening and smiling on the floor.
Soon I’m in the car, leaving her behind. The car spins its tires from time to time, and a small tremor will razor through my brain and muscles on occasion, but everything is under control. I arrive at Lucy’s house around 10PM, and her parents are asleep. She holds me at the front door, crying in the wrinkles of my sweater. I smile and smile, and let her know that I’m okay. That everything is finally okay. We walk up the stairs to her bedroom, free of rules, and she falls asleep as I rub her back and she tells me how much she loves me. The light on her TV flickers as it gets later, and the programming turns off, the call signs of the local channel illuminating my smile as the images bounce of my exposed teeth.
I think about my purpose, buried so long ago. I think about the stranger I’ve been riding along with for the past twelve years, and the opportunities he’s provided. I think about my mother, and how quickly and quietly she went on the dining room floor, almost allowing it. And I look down at the sleeping girl on the bed. The first bite is always the best, and I move her hair up off the back of her neck before I lean in and begin.
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