Leaving Whyalla
March 22nd 2008 22:07
"I'm still alive.
So, anyway, dad went out looking for mum on this pisser of a night. With his inside-out umbrella.
He eventually found her sitting on the beach. If you can call the shitty shoreline of Spencer Gulf a beach.
She was drenched. Like a wet shag on a wet rock. Sitting there in her sopping-wet dress and sopping-wet shoes and socks. With her knees tucked up under her chin. Slapping her head. Like someone demented or possessed. Getting pelted with rain and stung by the shell-grit which was whipping along the shoreline. Because God created the beauty of nature, and things like shell-grit and wind to give people a hard time?
To a casual observer, mum would have looked like she’d lost the plot. Or was an escapee from the loony bin trying to smack her lobotomy scar off her forehead with her hands. Because the rain wouldn’t wash it away?
Dad knew better. He knew mum never had the plot to lose. I reckon this was the night he realised he’d married the wrong woman. ‘I’ve married a psychotic bitch’ dad would have said to himself, in that way we speak to ourselves in our head all day long.
Dad asked mum, “What on earth’s the matter?” I guess he mentioned the earth because he was standing on it.
Or it’s just one more figure of speech human’s use?
Mum said, “I don’t want to stay in Whyalla, Leon. What chance will the child have here?” Leon is my dad’s name. That’s why mum called him Leon. So he’d know she was talking to him, and not the wind. Or shooting the breeze.
“What chance will the child [ME] have here.” ???
Well, what bloody chance would I have anywhere with two parents who stand on a shitty shoreline at night while I lie in a pram crying at home with the house wide open?
I swear people are stuffed in the head.
Sometimes I wish someone had come in the house that night and abducted me. And brutalised me. It would have been a lot less painful than the mental torture I went through from my parents.
As if mum wanted to leave Whyalla for my sake. She was just thinking of herself. It wasn’t for God’s sake. And it wasn’t for my sake. It was for her sake. What type of mother tells her baby to shut up, then just leaves it alone in the house with the door wide open? On a pisser of a night?
If I’d had more brains I would have killed both of my parents, not all those other people. But I like to think I gave my parents a chance to repent.
It’s better this way. They have to live with the stigma of having a child who turned into a serial killer. They deserve to suffer. Not die.
One day people will wake up and stop calling me a monster. They’ll go, “His parents were monsters to treat him like that. That’s why he ended up doing what he did.”
I think some people have twigged already.
There’s hope for the human race after all.
If I hadn’t become a serial killer, and had been born around the time Christ came into this world, I would have made an excellent John the Baptist. Just standing there on the shore of the Jordan River in my loincloth, with my hardened body, calling all the Jews from the temple at Jerusalem a “pack of vipers”. Putting the fear of God into them all. I would have been a Jew. So it would have been all okay to say, “You Jews are a pack of vipers. Who told you to flee the wrath to come?”
Then I would have baptised Christ, and headed back to the desert to live my penitential life, and waited for the time to come when I’d return to Jerusalem, and tell Herod off for being an adulterer. And get my head cut off and served up on a plate. Because Herod’s missus asked for my head on a platter as a present. And Herod was such a forerunner of the modern metrosexual gay pansy he’d do anything his missus asked him to do.
And after my head had been chopped off, Christ would have said about me, “There is no greater man born of woman than John the Baptist.”
But not before my head had spoken on the plate. I wouldn’t have shut up after my head was chopped off. I would have kept preaching even in death. I would have just sat on that plate (well my head would have), and I’d have gone, “Adluterer, Adulterer. You’re going to hell.” Just given Herod a real serve. From the plate? And said, “Can you pass me a grape? Death has made me all hungry.” Then prophesied that Herod would die a horrible death and get eaten all up with worms. Then burst out laughing as they stabbed me with their knives and forks and spoons to shut me up. And say, “You can kill my body but you can’t kill my soul.” I might have even gone and grabbed my body and reattached my head to it, and given them all a good smack around the head. For good measure. And eaten all their grapes. In reclining position. With pretension and condescension. And gone, “What? No chocolate covered grapes? Just plain ones?”
I think something “snapped” in my head to make me think like this.
Cos I’ll never be John the Baptist. I was born in the 20th Century. And not to Jewish parents. And became a serial killer instead of the son of Zachary and Elizabeth. I’m looking forward to meeting them one day. I want to hear all about their lives. Elizabeth composed part of the Hail Mary, when she said, “Blessed art thou among women. And blessed is the fruit of thy womb.” Well, the Holy Ghost composed the words, but used Elizabeth as His instrument to utter some of the most beautiful words ever uttered by a human being.
Apparently, some of the saints who are already in heaven have said they would come back to earth just for the chance to say one Hail Mary because it procures such glory for the soul in heaven. And it’s Mary’s favourite prayer because it’s made up of the words God spoke to her when he wanted her to be the Mother of God. What a stupendous mystery. Let all tongues be mute.
There’s still time for me to repent. I want to hear Christ say to me, “Come ye blessed of my father. And enter the kingdom which was prepared for you from all eternity.” That’s much more consoling than Him saying, “Depart from me, ye cursed, into the everlasting flames which were prepared for the devil and his slaves.” Or “I know you not.” That’s scary stuff.
I’m going to repent in prison. Well, I can’t repent anywhere else. They’re never letting me out of here. Which is fair enough.
I wish the toilet in my cell had a lid. I could teach myself to play the drums.
If I hadn’t done what I did, I would have made an excellent drummer.
I’d like a drum kit made out of human skin. I’d call one drum mum and one drum dad, and take out my frustration on them to a really nice tune like Rolf Harris’s Two Little Boys. Or beat the drum with my weener to the tune of Jake the Peg?
Na, I’d be too original to do covers. I’d write my own songs and music. The only song I’d cover is Pear Jam’s Alive. “Oooh I’m still alive” … (drum beat) “Ooooh I’m still alive” (more drum beats, with a bit of air guitar thrown in for good measure) … “Son she said … Have I got a little story for you … Who you thought was your daddy? Was a …” (great big ten minute long air guitar solo from Yatala … All the prisoners going “Shut the fuck up, you moron.” Me yelling back … “Don’t interrupt my guitar solo, you tossers.”
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