• tab When I was twelve, I killed my best friend. His name was Lucky, a border collie more loyal than any friend I ever made in school. I fed him, trained him, watched him grow into something beautiful. Then one day I came home from school, and my dad took me into his study, his desk silhouetted by the midday glare that shone through the window behind him. His cigar smoke floated towards the ceiling fan. He might have been the devil himself in his pinstripe suit. A six shot revolver, his old Smith and Wesson, winked up at me from the desk.

    tab "Jack, do you know what an investment is?"

    tab "When you spend money on something."

    tab "Well, Jack, there are financial investments, and there are emotional investments. Investments of time and feelings. Relationships are one kind of investment, like me and your mother. We have put both time and effort into making this a functional family. Just like you have taken care of that dog for the last six years of your life. As painful as it may be son, sometimes we put energy into something that we know will eventually just wilt and die, yet we invest something called hope into it. Jack, I don't know how to tell you this, but Lucky is rabid."

    tab "How do you know?"

    tab "He nearly killed your mother while you were away at school. Good enough?"

    tab I said nothing.

    tab "Take it." He motioned to the gun. "Save yourself the pain of waiting."

    tab He stood up, picked up his glass of scotch, and walked out of the study. I was alone with a loaded gun in my nice, suburban home. I gripped the arms of the chair until my knuckles turned white, until I was ready to spit smoke, and breathe fire. My brow furrowed, the room seemed to shrink around me. Self induced claustrophobia might have been the right term for it. But I think snapped pretty much describes the situation. My world imploded.

    tab Then I grabbed the gun, walked into the hall, past the various certificates and trophies, and opened the back door, into one of dad's so called 'investments'. His garden had been his pride and joy since we bought the house back in '85. He had spent more money constructing the Garden of Eden than spoiling any one of us, I'll tell you that. It was a seven figure investment of his own, a spiderweb that mirrored what was going on behind the whitewash walls of our three story house. I stepped off the stone porch, with its tiny imperfections that made it what my dad would have called 'high class'.

    tab The entrance to the garden was a twelve foot high arch that extended over a pathway riddled with exotic flowers, budding works of art. God's paintbrush put to a dark canvas. I could hear Lucky snarling somewhere on the other side of the garden. I could imagine him chasing birds by the fountain, teeth bared, foam dripping from his lips. I cocked the hammer back, extended my arm, moved forward. It was all in slow motion, broken in pieces, like celluloid film. Sound was dulled by a growing thud in my chest. White noise in my mind, behind my frantic eyes.

    tab The path gave way to a clearing, Lucky's dog house tucked away safely to the side, hidden by the undergrowth that disguised it. I whistled once, long and loud. All fell silent. The muted barks I had heard included. Suddenly there was an explosion of sound. Dad's bamboo patch swayed, though there was no wind. The stalks moved erratically back and forth, something furious and terrible. The only thing I could really say I ever loved.

    tab Lucky's eyes were the headlights of my father's old Mustang bearing down on an old man at a four way stop with me behind the wheel and enough cocaine in the glove compartment to land me ten years in Georgetown Penitentiary, easy.

    tab Time makes it all click. Remember that.

    Lucky's snarling face tore through the front stalks, his hind legs caught in the confusion behind him. He was desperate, clawing at me. I can't imagine what was going through his head. Maybe just a blind, uncontrollable rage. I think it was more than that, though. I think he was having to wrestle with the idea of killing me. After all, he was there for my protection, my comfort. It was his one satisfaction in my life, my unconditional gratitude for his loyalty.

    tab I let the gun fall to my side for a moment, confused and hurt. Lucky looked up at me and whined once, letting me know it was okay to pull the trigger. He knew he was done, and death was better than living like this. His eyes said kill me.

    tab And then he was on top of me. When you're dealing with a dog like Lucky, thirty yards doesn't mean much. His paws weighed down on my shoulders, his jaws wide open, ready for the kill. I smashed the butt of the gun against his nose, watched him eat dirt while I got back on my feet. He went for another lunge. I ducked and weaved. He fell short. I jumped on him, clutched his fur like I had a million times before, this time with a cold iron in my right hand and just a little bit of crazy in my eyes. I wrapped my arm around his neck, tried to choke him into submission. His teeth sank down on my exposed hand. I thought of the waffle iron in the kitchen, the hiss of batter being molded. The two were comparable in sensory detail.

    tab I didn't think when I put the gun to Lucky's head and pulled the trigger. It was more like muscle memory, reflex on top of survival instinct. His skull and brain exploded into tiny chunks, and suddenly, the needles in my hand slackened. My hand was raw meat. I might have been an extra from some mummy movie from the '60s. Strips of flesh hung from it, translucent and covered in blood.

    tab I got up, walked inside, and turned down the hall to the living room, where mom and dad were watching reruns. Small world, small life, small routine. Make some money, get a nice place, then sit around and raise your kid to your liking. A smaller, pocket size version of them to reflect their ideas, their virtues, their successes to a new generation. Some parents condition their children to go insane, to give up all hope in everything so maybe they'll succeed in something. Mostly they grow up to be angry musicians, hopelessly lost authors, movie stars looking for another outlet for their frustration. Most of the time, neglect is the recipe for disaster. My parents excelled at neglect.

    tab I ran my bleeding hand over the vanilla material that covered the sofa. Trails of red trickled and branched off before dripping to the floor, spatter patterns seeping into the hardwood. I might as well have been on another planet. The canned laughter on the television died down so Kramer could deliver another punchline. More fakeness from the television. I was sick of it.

    tab "The dog's dead." I said abruptly. I tossed the gun onto the glass coffee table. It shattered inward, the shards of glass making their own distinctive sounds as they fell. My mother looked at me slackjawed. My dad just smiled and enjoyed Seinfeld. He had won, and he wanted me to see him in this moment, triumphant and apathetic and ruthless as he always had been and always would be.

    tab "You gave our son a loaded gun?" I heard the hateful remark hiss behind her teeth. "Jack, honey? Are you alright?"

    tab "I'm fine, mom. Thanks for asking." I could see my dad's jaw tense up, in my mind's eye. He knew I had always loved mom more than him. And he couldn't stand the thought.

    tab "Jack, if you want to talk about this, we can-"

    tab I slammed the door and tried to think straight. My brain was slushing around in my head. Needles pushed through my skull, driving me deeper into some dark place where only my father would go for comfort. His closet full of skeletons was locked away in a corner of my mind, the hollow sound of bone hitting bone, forever droning on in my ears. In the end, you can never fight your chemistry. I was my father's son by nature. My mother's by choice.

    tab I just don't know who you are anymore, Jack. You come in every morning at three, you reek of vodka. I'm trying to make this work, but you've got to let me help you. Let me in, tell me what's wrong. The headaches, the fevers. You lost that book signing deal. How are we going to go on like this, baby?

    tab The horn's blaring. I'm in a ditch, my dad's car wrapped around a telephone post. Blood on the steering wheel, on me, the interior. I know I'm done for. They'll get the analysis done in a couple of weeks and it'll straight to Springvale in handcuffs, a sign around my neck that says 'Don't blame me, blame my parents.'

    tab The bathroom door was open, warm light spilling onto the beige carpet. I lurched my way to the tiled sanctum and rested my head against the toilet seat. I hurled, an entire school lunch gone to waste. Beads of sweat clung to my face. My eyes were lost, distant.

    tab My head hit the tile and I went out like a light, heard something snap in my head, maybe in my brain. Some nerve that understood light and darkness, and established the dichotomy that waged war on my conscience. Something that understood exactly what was going on, and how to deal with it. How to put a limit on my insanity, stablize it.

    tab And so, Vic was born.