The 'N' Word, Book 1 (16 page)

I would go out there all the time, practice casting my line. Sometimes Herschel would be there, sometimes he would not, then one day, he was just gone. I am not certain what happened to him, but I know he was quite up in age. I assume he died. I still recall to this day everything he’d said and taught me about fishing. He never asked me about my bruises and scratches, but I’d see him look. I’d go home, deal with my parents, but dream of fishing with the old man. One day, my father saw my fishing pole in the corner of my room. He’d been drinking and drugging. He asked me where I got it, and I told him a man had given it to me. He seemed impressed, and told me he was a great hunter. This surprised me, because my father never mentioned fishing, hunting, and sports of any sort. The only thing he did consistently was gamble.

In any case, Melissa, he said to me, ‘Aaron, let me take you hunting tomorrow morning.’

I jumped at the chance. My father had never taken me any damn where. He was rarely home, but when he was, it was seldom a good experience. Anyway, he said it would just be us – father and son time, with his firstborn. The following morning, I was ready, Melissa – super excited. We got in his truck and drove out to Alger Flats in Atmore. He had two rifles and told me he’d teach me how to hold the gun and shoot. Well, we walked and walked to a remote area. He grabbed one of the guns, put it in my arms, and told me how to aim it. He told me to practice aiming it. Well, I did and when I looked around, he was gone.

One hour passed, then another. I didn’t know the exact time, but I could feel it, and the sun was getting lower and lower in the sky. I started hearing noises, so I set out walking, and called out to him. I’d never been so afraid in all my life. Soon, the nightfall came, Melissa. I couldn’t see. It was getting cold outside, and I just kept walking, calling for my dad. There were wild animals racing around. I kept hearing them, as branches snapped here and there. I thought we’d be hunting quail, just like he said, but no, he just left me. Some other hunters found me crying. They tracked my father down; he was asleep in the truck not too far away. They tapped on the window, woke him up, and he looked at me and burst out laughing. He kept asking me if I was scared, and kept calling me a crybaby. One of the hunters threatened to report him for child endangerment, and then the two of ’em got into it until that guy just walked away…

Dad drove me home… and he laughed the entire way…

I never did learn to hunt from him, Melissa. I had to teach myself, and teach myself, I did. So there you have it. It was time for the prey to become the hunter, and the hunter to become prey. So, that’s what I did, Melissa. Yup. That’s what I did…

Chapter Seven

“Y
ES, BUT
WHO
are you?”

“I just told you.”

Aaron ran his hand along his stubble-covered jawbone as he slumped a bit in his seat. The damn chair was hard as rock and too small, to boot. He readjusted himself, growing weary of the battle the two had been at for longer than he’d anticipated. The little twerp just wouldn’t give it a rest.

“Aaron, it’s been a little over two weeks since our first session and you are still resisting. Where do you believe that will get you?”

“Are you a homosexual?” His brow lifted just so at the man.

Dr. Owens looked at him curiously and crossed one leg over the other before fastening his hands around his knee.

“Aaron, all you’ve told me is your affiliations. I know nothing about
you
as a
man
, as a person outside the white nationalism spectrum.”

Aaron leisurely scratched his left ear lobe and glanced at a painting on the wall. It had been done in shades of earth and death, with maybe a hint of life, too. A young boy stood there with a rifle out in the woods, surrounded by tall trees, thick darkness, and the ugly side of nature. For a moment or two, his chest tightened as he stared at the thing, finding a connection, an identity. He’d never paid the damn thing any mind previously, but somehow, today, it pulled him in…

How ironic… I hadn’t thought about that hunting trip in years and when I open up about it, lo and behold, here the shit hangs on this wall. That little son of a bitch even looks a little like me…

“Do you like going to art museums?” Aaron coughed into the palm of his hand as he kept his eyes on the little boy with the gun.

“Sometimes. Does that make me a homosexual, Aaron? Because I appreciate art?”

His eyes drifted down into the man’s for a short while before returning to the thing.

“Nah, not really. I asked if you were a homosexual because I don’t like homosexuals, Dr. Owens.”

“Seems to me, Aaron, you don’t like much of anyone… including yourself.”

Aaron cocked his head to the side and clicked his tongue against his inner jaw as he fought a smile.

“Is something funny?” Dr. Owens questioned, the beginnings of a grin forming on his face as well.

“Yeah, it is. You gotta come up with something else. I’ve heard it all before. White nationalists, race supremacists—supremacists? That is a ridiculous term by the way…” He rolled his eyes. “We all have small brains. We’re inbred hillbillies. We hate everyone.” He waved his hand limply. “We are afraid and hate ourselves, too. No, Dr. Owens, I don’t hate myself. I
love
myself.” He pointed to his chest. “And that’s why I’m here in the first damn place.”

“I see.” The man leaned further back in his seat and rocked ever so slightly. “So, your love for yourself is defined from your dislike of others? Perhaps, Mr. Pike, you could actually question what love means to you, then.”

“That’s laughable.” Aaron chuckled.

“Is it? I think you are stalling, as you have been the last couple of weeks. I know it was you that sent that little noose to my home, Aaron. The word ‘fag’ attached to it was a nice touch.”

Aaron tucked his joy away, for his pleasure was hitched on the man’s agony… He savored every morsel of the confrontation brewing between them.

“You’ve sat here for two weeks, Mr. Pike, and wasted valuable time. I am not letting you off the hook. I have rearranged my schedule to have even more one on one time with you.”

“I don’t care if you’re gonna take up space to sit your scrawny ass next to me in my cell for the rest of my sentence. You and me aren’t friends and you won’t get
anything
from me but what I
want
you to get.”

“Because you’re afraid…”

“I’m not afraid of a goddamn thing.”

“Sure you are. Only cowards call onto other men and have them do their bidding. Are you a coward, Aaron?”

“Do you honestly care? I doubt it.” He grimaced.

“You sent it as a warning, the little red noose, so that I’d let you out of this program. You were hoping it would scare me and cause you to be kicked out of treatment. I have not told Warden Huckleberry and have no intentions of doing so. I am getting close to something inside of you that you’ve spent the majority of your life trying to protect. I am getting
very
close, so close that you are fighting with everything you have… and you are breaking. You know you can’t hold out much longer. And it’s not only that a part of you actually wants to talk about it… but you’re scared, so you are becoming desperate.”

“If that’s so, Dr. Owens, then you must understand, being as brainy as you are and all,” he smirked, “that a desperate man is a
dangerous
man.” He let the threat simmer, percolate, until it was cooked to perfection.

“Perhaps. But let’s talk about what you are doing right this second, to protect yourself from what you perceive as a threat. When I insult you, you don’t flinch. When I say something that upsets you, you don’t show it in a typical way. The angrier you become, the calmer you behave. You have completely turned off your empathy and need to express emotion.
That
is where the
true
danger lies, Aaron. You are broken. You are damaged. But, you are not destroyed. Only
you
can be your own wrecking ball, Aaron. So I ask you again, who are you?”

“I’m Aaron Pike.”

“And who is Aaron Pike?”

His throat constricted around a ball of spit, gulped it down whole.

“Is he the little boy in the painting that you keep staring at?” the doctor asked calmly as he pointed to the thing but kept his eyes on him, not even blinking. “The little boy that looks a bit afraid, carrying his big gun for protection, but he still doesn’t feel safe. Is that you, Aaron? Is that you carrying your pride, your trumped up, self-imposed identity to protect a little boy that was violated and hurt but only wants to be loved?”

“Shut up.”

“Shut up?” Dr. Owens lifted a brow. “You like art, don’t you, Aaron? It is a little secret of yours… No one knows about it. You like pictures, words, expression… and this one means something to you.”

“You don’t know what I like and don’t like.”

“I know for the past two weeks you’ve glanced at the painting, first thing, when you walk in here. And today, you looked at it the longest, stared at it as if it were calling to you. That painting was done by an artist called Claude Monet.”

“What’s this? Faggot trivia?”

“Are you a faggot because you like art and expression and words, Aaron?”

“No, but you are.”

“So you admit that you enjoy art, expression and words? I’ve seen some of your speeches, and I know you wrote them yourself… Your writing is incredible.”

Aaron grew a bit warmer, so much so, he wanted to ask for a tissue to dab at his forehead, but he refused. No… he’d do nothing to confirm his discomfort.

“You speak so expressively when you are giving speeches to a crowd of people, Aaron. From my research regarding Adolf Hitler, you hit both of his pivotal points regarding how to influence and persuade people, gain their attention and trust. And that, sir, is with the written and spoken word.” The man squinted and pointed in his direction, as if he should react, nod in agreement, or give a round of claps. Instead, Aaron cleared his throat and looked away lazily before resting his eyes back on the man, all the while begging time to move faster.

“Hitler put much stock into the spoken word, believing it created a special connection between speaker and audience. You are motivational, able to stir peoples’ emotions at the very core. You write so beautifully… They are mere words, correct? But they read
almost
like poetry and I have no doubt that when you say the words aloud, magic is created. You’re gifted, Aaron, despite the heinous message being presented in your vocalizations.”

“Heinous?” He shook his head dismissively. “Nah, it’s
truth
, Dr. Owens. Sometimes truth and beauty can’t live together…cohabitate. That’s not my problem.”

“Here…” The man reached into a cream colored folder on his desk and retrieved a piece of paper. “Let me quote something you said:

“The fiery embers of a Hell on Earth crash against our ankles as we run towards the open arms of freedom. The burdens of others call us by our birth name, the one that God gave us, not our parents.

And we answer; we keep fighting through the burn. We answer our master’s cry.

This sick, twisted society tells us that we are wrong

To protect our red, hot blood, our beating hearts and our clear minds.

Do not fall prey to the oppressors, ladies and gentlemen.

Don’t become sidetracked or lose your stronghold on control. This life is a wave, and sometimes the waters get rough, but in those cases, one must hold on with everything he has, and as he drowns, he must smile and say,

‘I will wash ashore, live again, and people will see what I’ve done…’”

Silence webbed itself between them for a moment or two as the words filtered through the air like invisible musical threads, taking Aaron to a place where he was happy, respected, and treated with reverence.