Monsters 01: Quinn Artula

The first time my mother tried to kill herself was after my dad left. She did it the old-fashioned way: attempting to overdose on three different types of pills. Only she did it with some finesse; she put on her favorite song --some Beatles crap--lit some candles, and lay stretched out in the empty bathtub upstairs. I wondered if, somewhere along the line, she confused the ways to do it. It was only later that I’d realize she was simply being creative.

If you’re wondering, no, I never tried to off myself. I never liked to copy my mother for what it’s worth. She was a terrible influence when I was growing up. She was always drinking or smoking; once, when I was thirteen, she offered me a cigarette and a small glass full of brown liquid. It smelled bitter -- Jack Daniels.

When I said I didn’t want it, she looked at me with some sort of disbelief flashing in her blue eyes. Her voice was soft, but edged, when she spoke.

“Better late than never,” she muttered, pulling her hand away from my face. "Or, in your case, it’s never. What a disgraceful child.”

I bit my tongue. I wanted to tell her that she was wrong. I wasn’t the disgraceful one; she was. She had always been. If you’re curious as to why I haven’t mentioned what my friends thought about this, the answer is simple. I didn’t have any. Kids were quick to learn who my mom was then they went to great lengths to avoid me.

By that time I had become accustomed to being alone, so it suited me just fine when my mother went too far one day and actually did what she had intended to do that first time. I had just turned fifteen.

I know you’re probably reading this, whoever you are, and thinking I’m a horrible son. See, that would be true if everything I just told you was a lie. Believe me, I don’t like to lie. I mean, I don’t always tell the whole truth, but this is my life, and I’m not going to make shit up about it.

After her death, people treated me differently. They started talking to me for one. Some kids at school asked me how she did it. Those were the assholes. Then there was the one who asked me if I could join her.

I laughed, then, watching their faces. Each of them frowned, looking at me as though I were mad. Maybe I was. In any case, I grabbed the boy nearest to me, some skinny fucker whose name was Dave, and lifted him right off his feet.

I carefully held him up with one hand. How I managed to do that is beyond me. I glared at him, making sure my blue-green eyes bored into his pathetic, scared brown ones. I took a switchblade out of my pocket and pressed the knife, blade flat, against his cheek. Then I smiled.

“How about you go first? You can give your shitbag father a blow to the gut, too.”

That was the last thing I said or did before the teachers had decided I needed professional help. I wonder what they’d say if they knew the types of games people really played with others.