The first time I heard it was just after my eighth birthday. Along with the usual varied assortment of toys and clothing (especially new Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs from dear ol' Mom), I had received a new golden retriever puppy as my big present. I never was really good at picking out names for pets, even that stupid little hamster I had when I was four or so. I hated that thing. Always pooping everywhere. I decided to name the dog "Pete." Pete the Dog was as good a name as any I figured, until the mean kid from the next block over started making fun of it.
"Pete the Dog, looks like a hog and his owner is a fat green frog!" he would shout as I walked by his yard. "Hey, Kid," he would taunt while laughing, "if I had a dog that looked like that, I would shave his butt and teach it to walk backwards!"
"Shut up! You're the buttface, Boogerbrain!" I screamed at him, not knowing what else to say.
"Awww, poor baby," he jeered, "what's-a-matter? Did I hurt your feelings? Gonna go home and cry to Mommy?"
I stepped up my pace, but couldn't get his image out of my eyes or his ridiculing voice out of my ears. The scorning voice always seemed to find me no matter where I was playing. After rounding the corner, I bent over and hugged Pete around the neck as hard as I could. I told him that nothing would ever hurt him, especially that mean kid. Me and Pete, that was how it was going to be from now on.
"His fault." It was so quiet that I wasn't even sure I had heard anything, and I felt that if I squeezed Pete harder, the voice would go away. It seemed the harder I clutched my little golden retriever the better I began to feel. It was as if Pete was the cause of my embarrassment; it was Pete's fault that that kid was always picking on me. As he began to struggle, I realized that he knew this same fact and was trying to get away from his punishment, so I straddled his back as if I were on the fiercest bull of the rodeo. Barely audible, stunted yelps began coming from his throat and I squeezed as hard as I could. This little thing was no match for my eight-year-old arms mixed with fear and anger; this tiny animal wasn't going to cause me anymore problems. I wasn't going to let this mean dog make fun of me anymore.
"Rrrnnngghhhh!" I shrieked as I battled against the unseen force that was killing my helpless, little dog. With tears in my eyes, I let go and jumped back from the limp puppy. I sat hard on the cold cement and stared in anguished disbelief at what I had just done. "I'm sorry, Petey. Petey? Petey, I'm sorry. Please wake up," came the feeble words out of my mouth as tears streaked down my face.
"Hey, Frogface! What are you doing to your dog? What are you, some kind of FREAK!?" came the grating words from the end of the block.
"SHUT UP! I'm going to come after you next!!" I screamed as I ran home.
That kid never bothered me again. Nobody ever bothered me again. I lived the childhood of a recluse, listening to my head. Listening to the thoughts that were slowly driving me insane. Always wondering who I was and what I was.
Those thoughts and those voices have not changed with time. I have tried to escape the whispering words that contaminate my head with malevolence, with iniquity, with hatred. I have tried to escape, but could not. Now I cannot stand to hear the voicings any longer, nor do I wish to punish myself by fighting against them.
This is why I have come to this quiet, peaceful place in the mountains. A place where I can rest and forever escape the demons that live within my mind, heart and soul.
My senses heighten as I fill the chamber with a single bullet. I can smell the pine of the green firs that surround me, growing high and strong; I can hear the stream slowly trickling into the deep, blue lake, full of life and never dying; I can see a lone brown hawk across the water, searching for the food that she will take home to her newborns; I can feel the cool early June breeze as it blows impartially over my tanned skin, cleansing the air as it passes; I can taste the coming rain that will wash away the impurities of this golden day and cleanse the land.
The colors...they are everywhere except within me. Inside of me is only black. As black as soot in the chimney of an old cottage and choking me just the same. I am the top hatted sweep, this gun is my broom.
As I lift the barrel to my head, I look one last time to the sun. "Do it," I hear the murmur inside.
