The Great Pretender

Oct 30, 2015 by

Editor’s Note – We receive a lot of emails, most of them submissions from writers with some feedback about the site sprinkled through out.  We receive those through the various submission methods we have through Old 67, 67 Press and Submittable.  The vast majority are positive, but of course there are the weird outliers – but even those aren’t that bad. But this one, this one was a little weird. OK, a lot weird and it came to my personal email, which isn’t hard to find, it just adds to the unsettling nature of it all. I’d pass it off as an interesting “submission”, but it happens to coincide with a few other weird things that have been happening. I’ve ignored it for a while, but it’s started to bother me a little bit, so I’m doing what anybody that knows anything in 2015 would do, I’m posting it on the internet!  Let me know what you think…  Alan

The Great Pretender

Let me start out by introducing myself. I’m not going to give you my real name. You’ll soon understand why. Call me Marcus. I’ve always hated that name and since I remember, I’ve always hated myself . One reason I’m writing to you is because I came across your website by accident. You’re a very good writer and you entertain me with your content. I’ve done my research on you. You seem like a nice man, a nice man around my age. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed observing you and your family over time. I don’t feel alone when I’m near you guys. Your wife is small in stature, but she seems to have a hell inside of her. It’s okay though, I have hell inside of me as well. She saw me staring at her one day in a little nursery near your house. The way she delicately touched the plants and nurtured them reminded me of the way my Mother would gently brush my hair at night to help me go to sleep. When your wife caught me looking at her, her whole demeanor changed. It seemed to get under her skin. That’s one of my strongest attributes – getting under people’s skin. Your boy is very handsome. I think he looks more like you every day. He reminds me of someone I knew when I was his age. I was never blessed or cursed, depending how you look at it, with having children. It’s probably for the best, I would have just fucked them up or possibly done something even worse.

I performed an abortion on my girlfriend when I was in my early twenties. No reason to be alarmed. She wanted this even more than I did. She was around four months – I didn’t perform any type of surgery or medical procedure on her – she bit down on my wallet while I punched her as hard as I could in the stomach repeatedly. I lost count after twenty. She told her family and coworkers that she was in a car accident. The term coworkers makes me laugh when you’re talking about whores and strippers. No one really cared. She was tornado bait. Pure trash. She’s probably living off the government’s teat, and I’m sure that little bastard would have too. She passed the bastard on my bed the next morning. There was so much blood. It had an almost sweet, sulfuric smell to it. The way corn smells out of a tin-can. We stopped seeing each other a couple of days after that. I never knew what I saw in her. She would berate me and laugh at my impotence in the bedroom. I’m surprised she even got pregnant. It probably wasn’t mine to begin with. The blood never came out but I kept the sheets anyway. I like to keep certain items that remind me of the past. I guess everyone does. Back to why I’m writing you – it’s because my Frankie tells me I need to let some of this stuff out before it happens again. I don’t like the way I’m feeling lately. “Adrift in a world of my own. I’ve played the game but to my real shame, you’ve left me to grieve all alone. Too real is this feeling of make-believe. Too real when I feel what my heart can’t conceal.” Do you and the missy dance to music? Frankie could dance. He and I shared similar tastes in all things. I only listen to the oldies. They remind me of a simpler time. Everything is so fucking flashy these days – I’m surprised more people aren’t epileptic. Please don’t share any of this that I’m about to write. Don’t even show her… She has a beautiful name. Here we go —

I buried my first body when I was nine years old. Or let me rephrase that – I HELPED bury my first body when I was nine years old.

It was the fall of 1984. I had just seen The Terminator with my best friend, Frankie, days before at some old movie theater in High Point. For the life of me I can’t remember the name. It used to be a “jerk-off theater”, where my Dad and his buddies, the “beer battalion”, that’s what my mom used to call them, would go. A bunch of drunks beating their meat together always seemed a little odd to me. But, most things in this fucked up world seem odd to me. I’ve never really fit in with anyone. I was always pretending. “Oh-oh, yes I’m the great pretender. Pretending that I’m doing well. My need is such I pretend too much I’m lonely but no one can tell”. My Mother loved The Platters. I have her old 45s. Nothing sounds as good as vinyl. If purity had a sound I’m pretty sure that’s what it would sound like. My Frankie and I used to listen to my Mother’s records together. He was a big fan of “Not Fade Away” by The Crickets. “I’m a-gonna tell you how it’s gonna be. You’re gonna give your love to me. A love to last a-more than one day, a love that’s love – not fade away”. Those were great times. You could say that Frankie was the only person that truly understood me. Getting back to my story – you’re going to have to bear with me – I get sidetracked very easily. That scene in The Terminator when Arnold is repairing his cyborg eye in a dark truck-stop bathroom, and it’s bloody and hanging from an optical nerve… When I was burying her, her eye, much like his, was hanging down in a very similar way from an empty eye cavity. I stopped digging and just stared into that hole in her face… it was so dark, calming and beautiful. It was maybe the best I had ever felt. My Father yelled at me to keep on digging so we could finish before dawn broke. He was so flustered and he looked like he was going to pass out. He was sweating profusely and had sobered up. I started to smell his B.O., and he may have shit his pants. I don’t know. I took one last look into my mother’s eye (hole) and filled it up with earth. I never cried for her. I’ve never cried over anyone but my Frankie.

It wasn’t really my Mother’s fault. I blame myself actually. My Father was always jealous when he drank – he loved to drink bourbon. I can’t touch the stuff – if I do I become violently ill. My Mother treated me like a little boy. It drove my Father nuts. She would stand in the bathroom and talk to me when I took baths. Sometimes she would even scrub my back with a terry washcloth, and that would give me an erection. I know she saw it, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Frankie never took baths in the same room as his mom and he never slept in the same bed with his mom either. Frankie had nice parents. I know they didn’t approve of him hanging out with me. Frankie’s parents knew how drunk my Father would get. They didn’t like him coming over to the house. They didn’t particularly like for me to go over to their home either. I saw the way his mom used to look at me. I know I gave her the creeps. I wanted to dig out her judgmental eye with a tablespoon. They had every reason to not want Frankie to come over. Sometimes at night, it didn’t matter if he was drunk or sober, my Father would rape my Mother while I was in the same bed. I pretended I was asleep, but I watched the whole thing. I couldn’t look away. My Mother would softly whimper so that she wouldn’t wake me up. Tears falling down her cheek. The smell of sex and bourbon in the room would last for hours. After the act he would always pass out and the sounds of him sawing logs would drown out my Mother’s cries. I used to imagine dropping pennies down his snoring throat while he was asleep, or maybe even cutting off his flaccid penis after he raped her. I sometimes ask myself why I never stopped him from doing that to her… I guess it’s the same reason I didn’t stop him from smashing her skull in with a cinderblock. I had front row seats to that as well.

People around town used to say my Mother was a floozy. I saw the way she flirted with every man she came into contact with. It actually made me a little jealous. That’s why no one would bat an eye when she just vanished. Everyone assumed she ran off with another man. I overheard Frankie’s dad talking to one of his pals about my Mother’s tits one time. He said, “you could bounce a quarter off of those things”. That night I watched her undress – she would always leave the windows open when she did. I’ve always wondered how many men beat it outside of our house to my Mother’s nightly show. I got an erection the night I really noticed her tits for the first time. It wasn’t because her breasts aroused me – It was because I fantasized about biting her nipples off.

The night I buried my Mother was not the last time I saw her.

A week went by and I was alone. Frankie’s aunt had died so they were in Virginia attending the funeral. My Father was off on one of his weeklong whiskey benders. I listened to my Mother’s records until around midnight and then decided to go give her a visit. It took me a couple of hours to dig her body up. There was something going off inside of me that I had never experienced. It’s a thirst that is hard to quench, even to this day.

I was actually excited to see her. The smell didn’t bother me at all. It smelled like the dead possum I found in our attic during the summer of 82. She still looked like herself except for her milky white, bloated skin. Her blonde hair was still stained and matted together with dry blood. The empty eye cavity that I was so mesmerized with had filled up with dirt. I looked for her hazel eye and couldn’t find it. It was probably food for the worms. I wanted to keep that. I wanted to keep my Mother’s eye in a mason jar like she preserved her apple, blueberry and cherry preserves over the years. I tried to get as much earth out of her eye cavity as I could. When there was none left, I began to stare into the dark oval… NOTHING! It wasn’t the same. I needed to feel calm. I wanted to feel like I did that night. I got very angry and started pounding on my Mother’s lifeless chest. The very same chest that I slept on many times as an infant. I began screaming at her and calling her a “whore”. I calmed down after a few minutes. I then looked down and gingerly touched her right breast; much like your beloved wife touches a newly bloomed orchid. My Mother’s tits felt like hardened water-balloons. I wanted so badly to put them in my mouth. I unbuttoned her purple nightgown and grabbed ahold of her firm left breast. I put her pink, dime-sized nipple into my mouth and bit down lightly at first. Her skin was so cold I could feel it through my ivories. I then bit down as hard as I could and started grinding my teeth side to side against her ashen bosom. I started to cry because I missed my Frankie. I was erect.

It didn’t end there. I used to pay whores to let me bite their nipples. They didn’t like it when I drew blood. I just paid them a little more to stop crying. My dark days enthralled me when Frankie left – or we grew apart over the years. It’s more like he grew apart from me. Frankie and I are complete opposites but we share the same heart. I just need to see him in person and it will calm me – much like staring into the eye cavity.

I got so good at pretending that sometimes I actually believed I was normal. I never had a real relationship with a woman after the pregnant stripper. I could have – women believe what they want to believe. They never saw me for the lusus naturae that I really was. Fancy fucking word – I learned that and other fancy words when I started reading books trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with me.

I was never social, but it’s not hard to pickup loose women when you flash a hundred dollars in their direction. I don’t ever meet the women in the same area. There are some men too. But I’m not proud of that. I spread my encounters across the state of North Carolina and Virginia. I don’t want to talk about worm food. They make me angry. I want to talk now about Frankie and how he-you can help me. You see, I’m tired of being the great pretender. I need serenity. I need my Frankie. I need to be myself. I need fucking help.

My Frankie is the only person I have told any of this to… But you should already know that, shouldn’t you? How long have you been hiding from me, Frankie? You just moved on with your life and started yourself a pretty, little family. It makes me sick.

I drank a fifth of bourbon and threw up all over your back porch and beloved’s car a month ago. I hope it smelled like a million dead, bloated whores when you found it the next morning.

Did SHE tell you that you couldn’t be with me? I’ve laid and cried for hours in your bed while your house was empty – looking at that fake smile in your wedding photos. You don’t really love her. I’ve been under your bed while you and SHE were fucking like dirty monkeys. It was the most sickening thing I have ever heard. I thought about slitting my throat under there and letting you guys find me in the morning. But you would have never known who I really was.

One night last week I stood over your bed holding a cinderblock waiting for the right time to drop it on your face… But I couldn’t. You look so old, but you look like my Frankie when you’re sound asleep. “Your love for me a-got to be real. For you to know just how I feel. A love for real not fade away.”

Just leave one dark night when she and little Frankie are asleep. They’ll never even know you left. I won’t be far away. We’ll lay on my favorite sheets in the dark woods behind your house and stare at the stars. We can dance like we used to when we were kids. I’ll show you the eye cavity and you’ll finally know what pure nirvana feels like. I’ll sing to my Frankie.”I’m wearing my heart on a crown, pretending that you’re still around”.

Your Beloved,

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  1. Ian Brett

    This is insane!

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