Watch Child Marasmus

If I knew it were true before I came into this world, it might have been easier to handle . . .

I went about my days, living, loving, and growing up day after day in a strange land, away from my home. My parents came over to this country when I was young - about ten years old. They were fearful people trying to make a name for themselves. Constantly watched me as I grew. They did not watch me as doting parents would. But rather watched me in a small terror of something I might become.

They had heard of the Watch Child Marasmus. For no child who ever got WCM was truly starving or undernourished as the name implied. That was just an attempt to cover up the reality behind the situation. Those children, who attracted this horrific disease, just had a curse. A curse that came only once every so often. Unpredictable, but horribly true. Our previous homeland, a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere, would give birth to five of them. Everyone knew how many would come. The same amount came every time. However, like I said, no one knew when.

There were some simple signs children with Watch Child Marasmus would show. Some very extreme, others rather mild. But they were there nonetheless. It was always misnamed as one disease or the other, because it showed so many symptoms over the period of its incubation. These symptoms would arise in no particular order or logical sequence either. Therefore, it was impossible to treat. No one knew when it would manifest, but when it did it hit big and crazy.

It was strange, how it worked. A child would get flu-like symptoms, depression, anxiety, nerve problems, dyslexia, schizophrenia, heart problems, or other symptoms that seemed completely unrelated. Sometimes, a child would have no symptoms at all until WCM reared its evil head. Everyone who was born with it reacted differently. So, basically, no one could ever tell who had it until it was too late.

My parents, on the other hand, thought I had the curse. They thought so because a distant ancestor had it a long, long time ago. I guess they thought I was more prone to attract it since it ran in my family. As a child, I had many ailments. I guess I had enough of the ones that arise before Watch Child Marasmus forms to give my parents concern. Yet, I knew I was ok. I just thought they were weird for thinking as they did.

I went about my younger years as any other child would. Frustrated from not fitting in. Crying because of the cruelty of my peers. Laughing at the silent moments I had that made me realize I was just another human being. I didn't talk much. Kept to myself most of the time. Never knew what to say or how to react in a social situation anyway, so why embarrass myself? I read a lot. Made up stories in my head. Drew pictures. My parents got concerned that I was not adjusting to life the "right way, so I was introduced to a slew of shrinks. None of them had a clue to what was really going on inside of me. I thought I knew, but I soon found out I was wrong.

My parents were constantly reading the local paper of my hometown. What they were looking for I had not a clue. Every morning it was a ritual. My father would get up early and head to the local newspaper stand to get the Mangarland Gazette. He had to pay a pretty penny to get the old newspaperman to order the paper, but the fat man did so out of the kindness of his heart and the greed of his soul. While my father was out getting the paper, my mother was cooking a nice, hot breakfast. I, on the other hand, was getting ready for my day of uncertainties. When my father arrived, my mother and he scoured the paper for a particular headline. They had never found it and seemed relieved every time. I would ask every once in a while what they were looking for, but they changed the subject and talked of other menial things. I never really knew what they were looking for. I just went about my days living and hiding from embarrassment wherever I went.

School was very frustrating being a foreigner and all. The other kids, my so-called peers, would always have some negative comment to say about my heritage. None of them really knew what my heritage was, but they made up cruel jokes nonetheless. I hated being a kid without the freedom I craved. I hated my peers. I only liked the solitude of my own mind.

The first morning of the new school year, I jumped onto the bus eager to learn, but a nagging anxiety rested in my heart because of the fear of facing my "friends. However, today would be like no other I had experienced. As my bus approached the school, there were a slew of police cars outside. I walked into my homeroom, looking around at the strange scene. It was hard for any of us children to concentrate with all of the curiosity floating through the air. One of the students got brave and asked the teacher why all of the policemen were around the school. She would not answer his question and went about our daily math lesson. None of us heard what she said and then the bell rang.

Second period, during the announcements, our principal got on the speaker and told us to go to the auditorium for an emergency assembly. After all of us had been seated, our principal gave us the answers we were looking for. It seemed that one of our schoolmates had been killed the night before. No one knew how or why. He was just found, dead in his bedroom on the floor. There was no sign of forced entry or any strange occurrence surrounding the scene. It was as if someone just materialized in his room and killed him. The principal told all of us that we could go home after the assembly.

That night, my parents were watching the news. The headline story was the murder that occurred the night before. I later found out that the boy's throat had been bitten and ripped out. I felt remorse for his family and his friends. The only good thing to come of it all was that the other kids forgot about me for a while, and I was able to go to school in peace.

No one ever forgot about what happened to the young boy. I don't think anyone ever will. During the second half of the year, just when everyone had put the incident on the back burner of their minds, another incident occurred. This time it was another of my classmates. He was up late studying for a history final in his room, when his parents heard a loud scream that woke them up. When they ran downstairs and found their son, his throat had been ripped out as well.

Now the police were getting mighty concerned. Two horrible murders in one year. Both done the same way. There didn't seem to be any connection between the two murders, except for the ripped out throats, and all of the detectives were thoroughly confused.

I noticed my parents getting edgier over the next few days. As usual, my father made it his first priority to get the Mangarland Gazette; my mother and he scoured the paper more furiously than I had ever seen them. One morning, my father came in running and screaming to my mother and rushed her into the living room while I was eating my breakfast so I could not hear them talk. I got up, however, to listen and overheard him telling her that the Watch Child Marasmus had manifested in our hometown. Fifty people were murdered, but all five of the children had been caught. I heard a huge sigh of relief from my mother as she cried on my father's shoulder. I quickly sat down and continued eating my eggs and bacon.

My mother was the first to enter the kitchen; she ran up to me and held me in her arms. My father followed her and did the same. After that emotional morning, the two of them were completely different people, and treated me differently as well. No longer did they look at me and wonder. Instead, love radiated from their eyes and hearts, and life began to be much better.

This happiness, however, did not stop the strange tastes in my mouth. The tastes were getting stronger and more frequent. I did not know what to do, as all of my baby teeth had fallen out, and the dentist said there was nothing wrong with my mouth. In fact, I had the strongest and healthiest teeth he had ever seen. Now, instead of thinking it was my teeth, I began to think it had something to do with my throat. I tried not to worry about it much and went about my days as I always did.

Two years after the last murder, another occurred. I was in high school and about to graduate. I had anticipated getting out of school in the spring and entering college in the fall. But I forgot about all of this when I heard another of my classmates had been murdered. He was murdered in the same way. This time, however, he was taking a late night stroll through his neighborhood but never returned. When his parents woke up to an empty bed, they called the police.

His body was found under some bushes about a half a mile from their home. His clothes were soaked with blood. Instead of a nice white T-shirt he had on when he left, they found him in a blood red one. His throat had been torn out even more severe than any of the others. His head was almost decapitated from the incident. The only thing that held it connected to his shoulders was a thin strand of neck muscle that was still in tact.

By now, the police were completely baffled. Three murders, no suspects, and no leads. No one knew what to do, and the town was on the verge of hysterics. They were losing faith in their police system, so the police began to investigate harder. Months passed and they were no closer than they were when they started. The only thing they had done was spend a lot of the tax payers' money.

I had left for college. Well, when I say left, I mean I went to the local university about twenty miles away from where my parents lived. My family didn't have much money, so it was much more economical for me to do so. I enjoyed it greatly though. I made a deal with my parents before I left. I told them that if they would not call me all of the time then I would come home or they could visit me at the school one weekend a month. This allowed me the freedom I wanted and placated their lonely hearts as well. They held up to their bargain, even though I know it killed my mother to do so. My father must have had his hands full keeping her away from the phone and the car. I must admit, however, he did a wonderful job, and I was able to start my new life.

I decided to study psychology in college. I figured it was just an extension of me always trying to figure out what is going on in my mind. Now, I would be trying to help others figure out what is going on in their mind. It was an interesting thought, ranking myself up there with Freud, Pavlov, and Jung. I knew that in the world I live in now, there is no such thing as Freud, Pavlov, and Jung but rather it's a quest for the green dollar bill. I thought a lot of psychology had to do with this. Not that any was ever published, but rather people's problems stem from the lack of being able to take care of themselves. And money has a lot to do with it.

My family sure knew about lack of money. Being foreigners and all we had to contend with the stigmas and generalizations of people. My father worked hard. My mother worked hard. He worked in a factory. She worked in the home. It was part of our culture back home, and my parents carried it over to the States. My mom didn't mind. In fact, if you asked her, she would tell you straight out that it is all she has ever wanted to do. And she wasn't lying. My mom was a strong woman. Not in physical strength, for that she lacked much. She was a petite woman. Some people might say frail. She had always been that way. Even since birth, but she didn't care. She loved life, and it loved her back.

My dad. Well, he was strong too. Both physical and mental. He would never let you know it though. For he did not talk much. He just sat in his chair after work and flipped through the channels on the television. He had his moments, before working in the factory, where he was full of life. A time when he loved life and it loved him back. However, after almost twenty years at the factory, he is having a hard time breathing and his joints ache all the time. My mother takes care of him very well. The one thing my father hasn't lost is the love for his wife. I don't think I have ever seen so much love between two people.

So when they come to visit me, I don't mind so much. I love them, but I was my own man. They understood, and we all enjoyed the company that we did share. One thing that they both did say was that they supported me in whatever I wanted to do. They even thought psychology would be a great thing for me to do. "You're a smart boy, my mother would always say. My father would just mess up my hair and laugh.

College was definitely not as bad as all of the rest of the grades a person must go through. It was flexible, to a degree, and you could always find time to do something. At college my psychological quest began. And then it was put on hold for a bit. On a Monday of my freshman year, in the middle of winter, a student was murdered. He had been found lying beside the pond on campus along the trail. They found his blood pouring in to the pond from where his head was severed from his neck. It was as if something ate right through his neck in one giant bite. None of the neck was left. There was just the shoulder with the rest of the body. And then there was the head with no neck at all. It was a very creepy and eerie scene to see, but they broadcasted it on the nightly news for the whole world. That's how I found out. It reminded me of the ones that happened back home to my other classmates. My mother called me up to make sure I was all right, and I told her I did not know this person directly. She was just a concerned mother and wanted to make sure her baby was okay.

It took a while for the eerie images to leave my mind. It's as if I had been at that spot before and knew it clearly. It was odd. I had never walked down that side of campus, but it seemed so familiar to me. I think that is why it took so long for the images to leave my mind. When they dissipated, I once again began my psychological sojourn into people and their minds.

College was interesting. I learned a lot, and then again, I'm not quite sure what I actually learned. I was a book worm. I didn't party much ' only when one of my few friends was having people over. I never got into the party scene. Since I was never comfortable being a foreigner, I stayed to myself even more as I grew older. I did well in school, and graduation was a spectacular day.

My parents drove up from our home town. I was the first one in my family to go to college and graduate. The ceremony lasted a little longer than I had wanted, and my family went out to the local restaurant house to celebrate. At dinner my father asked what I was going to do. I sat there chewing the chicken in my mouth for what seemed minutes trying to think of an answer. I didn't have one. Silence filled the air for a few moments. My mother broke it by saying, "You can stay with us for a while until you figure it out. My father nodded. I smiled.

I moved back into my parents' home planning on spending the summer figuring out what I was going to do. I had a few months until I had to start paying back the loans I had accrued helping my parents pay for college.

I wasn't too sure what the hell I was going to do. I was twenty-two years old, spent four years learning what I thought I wanted to know. Yet, I seemed to be missing something. I sat in my parents' home wondering what to do. A strange anxiety began to fill my soul, and I started to wonder what was going to happen to me. I couldn't disappoint my parents. They worked too hard to provide a nice life to me. However, I was worried, and I went to bed dreaming of chaos and insanity.

Three weeks after I went back to my parents house, another resident of our town was killed. There was no mistaking who the murderer was, because this person's throat had been ripped out as well. The neck was completely gone. The odd thing was, the same morning I had woken up with that strange taste in my mouth. And I was concerned.

That night, I dreamt of the murder. The man was walking up from the subway onto the street. It was a deserted corner. No one was around nor had been for a while. The lighting was dark, and buildings blocked the view from three sides. As he emerged from the subway, I saw myself round the corner. Except it wasn't me. I was some hideous monster. Fangs beared. Claws striking out. I grabbed the man from behind. Threw him down onto the ground with a force no man could muster. I put my left palm on his chest and held him firmly to the ground. He was screaming. Within an instant I was on him. My mouth biting into his throat. I could feel the blood pour down my throat. At the time it tasted wonderful. I couldn't get enough. I kept eating and eating until I had devoured his entire throat and neck.

I woke up in my bed sweating. I couldn't believe what I dreamt. Was it real? Had I murdered all of these people over time? I panicked. I packed a backpack with enough clothes for a few days, grabbed my passport my parents made me get, and headed out of my parents' house.

I caught a cab to the airport. I had to get as far away as I possibly could. I figured I'd head back to my hometown. Maybe someone there would have an answer. Watching my parents peruse the newspaper for all of those years, I couldn't bear to let them know I might have the disease they dreaded. I just hoped once I got to where I was going that someone would have a way to cure me.

The plane ride there was long. I didn't realize how far my parents had actually moved until I traversed that extent of the world myself. When I got there, I went straight to the village from where I'm from but did not remember.

I was welcomed. My parents called it a village. I thought it was more of a small town. I wandered around for a while. It didn't take too long to walk around the entire place. I noticed one place, back on the other side, that might be able to give me some answers. I headed that way.

I stood outside the shaman's shop. I wasn't sure what I would say when I got in there. The old man would probably think I'm crazy, but I had no other choice. I opened the door and went in.

It smelled badly in this place - kind of halfway between sulfur and must. I wasn't sure what to expect when I headed up the stairs. The stairs ended around a corner in front of a door. I knocked. It was opened kindly by an old man full of hair both on his head and on his face. He looked at me strangely. It seemed once he looked into my eyes his mood changed. He motioned for me to sit down, but he kept staring at me as if he was scared. I sat down and looked at him. He stood across the room. I began to speak.

I told him about the murders, the strange tastes in my throat and mouth, and how everywhere I went it followed me. I told him about my ancestor who had Watch Child Marasmus. I told him about my parent's paranoia. He just listened.

I kept talking and rambling over and over for many minutes. He just stood on the other side of the room staring at me in horror. After a while I began to feel self conscious so I stopped talking. I ended with one final question ' Do you know what is wrong with me?

He stood there for a few moments. Then he began to pace around me in my chair. He touched my head, my face, my throat ' then shrunk back in terror.

"You are cursed, he said, "you are cursed.

I asked him what he meant. I asked him if I had the disease. He told me I did. I cried. He watched.

"Is there a cure? I finally asked in between my sobs even though I knew there wasn't.

"There is not, he responded.

"Then what must I do to end this horrible curse? For I can't go on like this killing people needlessly without control, I muttered.

"There is only one thing. In two days there will be a new moon. You will start to change. You must be burned at the stake while in that form. It is the only way.

"Ok, I said, "we shall do it then.

He nodded and told me I could sleep in his store until then, because if anyone in the village knew what I was I would surely be in trouble.

I sat in is store thinking for two days. I was sure this needed to be done, but I was ashamed my parents would not know what happened to me. I was remorseful that they might never know and would go on forever wondering what had become of me.

I knew I had to do this. There was no way I could continue to go on killing as I had even though I remembered only the last one. I knew I had to do this.

The evening came. The shaman came to get me. We walked outside of town. He had already made a pyre of logs. I climbed up onto the cross he had made atop the pyre. He tied me down. I checked to see if I could move just in case the fire got too hot. I couldn't.

I stood atop the pile of logs. I knew it was about to end. I had no choice. While I stood there, the moon began to emerge from behind the clouds. I began to feel my blood burn. I started to change. As I watched the shaman light the pyre, I noticed two figures emerge from the darkness. It was my mother and father. They had found me.

I screamed into the air ' half out of madness, half out of fear. I could see my mother crying as my father held her in his arms. He looked me into my monstrous eyes but held his glare still. It was as if he was looking into my soul. He nodded at me slowly and smiled knowing what I was doing. He would be able to explain it to my mother one of these days. My old man knew I had to do what I was doing. I had no choice.

The shaman danced around the fire as it engulfed me. I screamed out in pain. My mother screamed out in empathy and loss. My father pulled her closer. As I was fully turned into the monster I was cursed at birth with, I lost my mind. The heat was excruciating. The pain was unbearable. I let out one last scream before it was over. I heard my mother cry one last time. My father pulled her closer.