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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
It is a story of a misunderstood boy who eventually realizes who he is.

Submitted: September 27, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 27, 2018







By Josh McCombs


Timothy was a rather meek 11 year old boy. An only child, born into a middle class family Timothy never had much to complain about or much to say. 

He didn’t get along with the other children in his neighbourhood. His interests where quite different from the other boys. Where they might be playing baseball, Timothy was off playing with dolls, when the boys were wrestling, Timothy was having pretend tea parties. These differences often left him bruised and blooded by the other boys and maliciously made fun of by the girls of his neighbourhood. 

Timothy to his parents was a strange boy “He’s to quiet.” They would say. “Boy’s should be loud, he’s to quiet.” His father would often go to him and take his dolls away “You’re a boy Timmy.” Timothy hated to be called Timmy. “Boy’s don’t play with dolls. What kind of man do you expect to grow up to be if you keep doing this?” This lecture would often be followed up by a firm slap upside Timothy’s poor head. His mother was no better. She would often drag him into the house when Timothy was having a tea party so  the neighbours  would not see him. “What kind of boy has tea parties? That’s not what boy’s do. What kind of man do you hope to grow up to be?” From there his mother would banish him to his room after a firm slap on his bottom. 

In his room was where Timothy would spend most of his time, either by punishment or to hide from the neighbourhood children. He like the sun and the outdoors, but not the pain that goes with it. Soon Timothy would spend almost all his time in his room, save to go to school, so that way nobody would hurt him. 

Timothy’s parents thought this was not right. Often they would come up and forcibly drag him from his room. “Get outside.” They would say. “Play with the other boys.” They would say. “Be normal.” They would say. 

Timothy would often wonder if he is normal. His parents hurt him for doing things that made him feel happy. The others children would hurt him for doing things that made him happy. There must be something wrong with him if the things he likes to do are not what  boys should do. So Timothy would hide when he was outside, so no one could see the freakish thing he is. 

His parents decided that maybe some sort of musical training might help him to become normal. They both enjoyed violin music so they decided to him Timothy learn to play the violin. 

Timothy, when told he was going to learn the violin, said “I do not wish to play the violin.”

His parents would hear none of this. “A normal boy would play the violin. A normal boy would do as he was told.” So his parents went to the music shop in town and purchased poor Timothy a brand new violin. Timothy was not happy. 

Soon after his violin lessons began. Every Saturday, his violin teacher, a dreadful old woman by the name of Agnes, a pudgey old woman with a wrinkled face would come by and try to teach Timothy how to play. “Now Timmy.” As she liked to call him. “Take out your violin and we shall begin.” She said in her sickeningly sweet voice, the voice she would use until Timothy’s parents left the house to go run their errands . Once they departed she would become more menacing, more strict, more mean. “Now play this Timmy and get it right this time.” She would say her voice no longer sickeningly sweet, but full of hate and venom. When Timothy would make a mistake Agnes would rap his fingers with wooden ruler with a metal edge. By the end of each lesson Timothy’s fingers would be purple and black, some times even bleeding from the assaults she would administer. 

After each lesson Timothy found himself developing a rage deep inside. Driven to grow even more by the day with all of the beatings and teasing from the neighbourhood children and his parents. 

“What kind of boy are you?” They would chant in poor Timothy’s head “Normal boy’s aren’t like you! What kind of boy are you?” 

Finally it was Saturday yet again and time for yet another of Timothy’s violin lessons. As always Agnes begins sickeningly sweet “Hello Timmy.” He hates to be called Timmy. “Are you ready to play?” From there they would take out their instruments and begin. “Now Timmy.” Agnes would say in her mean old lady voice. “Play it right this time.” Timothy tried, he really did but unfortunately he made a mistake. 

“Oh Timmy, what kind of boy are you?” She said. “A normal boy could do it right.” Timothy began to cringe he knew what was coming soon. But Agnes didn’t stop her berating, this time she said something that would change poor Timothy. 

“Timmy, you know what you are? You’re no little boy, you’re a freak.” 

“You’re a freak.” Those three little words began running through Timothy’s head. As they ran he began to remember. He remembered all the times he was asked what kind of boy he was and he didn’t know how to answer it. Now he had his answer, he was no little boy, he was a Freak! 

Timothy began to breathe hard, he felt his face get flush and he felt all his rage rise to the surface. When suddenly he felt a stinging on his hand. He looked over to see Agnes holding down his left hand and preparing another assault with her ruler with the metal edge. 

Of all the thoughts going through poor Timothy’s anger riddled mind, he would tell you picking up the violin was not one of them, nor was swinging it with all his might at Agnes‘s wrinkled face. No poor Timothy was not even imagining that, but it was what was happening. With a sort of musical thud it connected squarely with Agnes’s wrinkled nose, the back of the violin breaking and the sharp pieces of wood tearing at her face. The impact sent her reeling off of her bench to the floor, the back of her striking first with a sickening crack. 

Timothy looked down to see his teacher laying on the floor not moving, blood rushing from her head, cuts all over her face. Poor Timothy if he had stopped might have been able to explain this, things might not have turned out as they did, but he did not stop. He put the violin down for a moment and looked at as it sat in front of him, his mind still full of hate, and vengeance for they way he has been treated. Timothy looking down at his violin, cracked the faintest smile before picking it up, rising from the bench, walking around to Agnes’s body, and proceeds to further bash in Agnes’s face till there is nothing left of either the violin or Agnes’s old wrinkled face. 

His parents return shortly after to find poor Timothy sitting properly on the bench, clothes and gore staining his clothes and skin and the virtually headless Agnes propped up by a chair beside him. 

Timothy now is generally left in peace to do most things that make him happy. The nurses allowed him to have one rag doll, and he has all the tea parties he wishes. Timothy often hears “A normal boy wouldn’t do that. What kind of boy is he?” But that doesn’t bother him anymore really, because now he knows.



© Copyright 2019 Josh McCombs. All rights reserved.

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