Insane is Thy Name

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Nobody understood Matthaias. Everyone was afraid of him. Until one day, he took a stand and in his stead he left a trail of blood.

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Insane is Thy Name

Submitted: December 14, 2012

Reads: 430

Comments: 2

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 14, 2012



Part 1: Seed

In the sunless, dark room, a small boy shyly peered over the hospital bed. His hair was the black of crow’s feathers, and he had skin as white and unblemished as porcelain. The little boy was out of place in the home for the sick and dying. His curious, hazel-green speckled eyes stared into the mystery he saw before him. “Say hello to grandpapa, Mattie.” His mother enthused, her voice accented by German roots.

“Hello.” He murmured shyly, his eyes downcast from the cloudy yellow eyes of his grandfather. “Whose there?” He said dreamily, his voice raspy. “’It’s your daughter, Mary. My husband Joseph and my son Matthaias are here too.” Grandpapa mumbled something, and then noticed Matthaias staring inquisitively at him. Their eyes made contact. Matthaias was afraid of the old man covered in blood-filled tubes. He couldn’t understand why he was like this. Matthaias had seen him cry, soil his bed and drool all down his chin like a baby. Sometimes, grandpapa would shout big people words that he seethed with pure, sickening hatred. Matthaias’s mother coaxed him to the side of the bed, his feet dragging in protest. Grandpapa’s weary blue eyes gleamed as Matthaias neared toward him. When Matthaias came to his side, he closed his eyes. Goosebumps rose on Matthaias’s skin as he listened for another breath of air. There was none. He looked to his mom and dad, who also looked worried. When Mattie turned back, Grandpapa’s eyes shot wide open, and he cackled loudly, legs thumping on the bed. A slew of words came from him, all spoken quick and funny, but Mattie knew what he was saying. He lamented on his shitty, deplorable life. He stopped and looked at Mattie. “Live your life hating, never give your love to anybody but yourself. That’s how you will survive. Love is nothing but a made-up dream…when you think you’ve found it, it bites you in the ass. Remember that, Matthaias.” As he said this, his voice was grim and his eyes stared into nothing, his toothless mouth foaming with spit. Mattie’s mother grabbed him by the arm and took him out of the room. Hatred is right, love is a lie. Matthaias’s grandfather died in the Mental Health Hospital that day, where he was brought just a week before. The psychologists there didn’t have time to diagnose his sickness, but they knew that he was insane. Grandpapa had lived all alone, deep in the woods on a dirt road. He was nobody to the government, non-existent to the whole world. Harold Schiff was the secret of his mother’s family. A family that stayed quiet and stayed home, and when somebody like Harold came along, he wasn’t a nut or psycho; that was just the way he was. When the Schiffs and the Kenneys came from Germany, they stayed tight. There were the Wagners also, but they were nothing like the Schiffs or Kenneys. They were different. Harold came to America with his father in 1920; he was fifteen at the time. His mother never came to America because she and his father split long ago, and he was left with Harold. Those days he was a strong boy worked hard on the farm, with a mane of straight black hair just like Matthaias’s. Once his father died mysteriously, Harold wouldn’t talk to anyone about it and hid away in the house alone. He split away from the world, and went mad in that house. The tales still flow about how a chicken disappeared every couple nights on the Kenney’s farm, so many that the only daughter of the Kenney’s, Emily; stayed in the chicken coop all night with her father’s rifle hoping to shoot the fox. Once the dark shadow that was Harold came in, she dropped the rifle in shock and it shot off into the hay, where fire lit. By the flames and the screaming of chickens burning alive, he raped her. Emily was found in the morning, set ten feet away from the burned chicken coop. Although she was only 12 at the time; she became pregnant and would guard her baby with her life from the monster that killed her inside. She named her son Joseph. The Kenney family never forgot the tragedy that befell their daughter, and they moved north in New York into the Adirondacks, far away from Harold. By the time Joseph was eighteen, he had many flings with girls, but the only one that caught more than just his eye was Mary Wagner. The Kenneys stayed in contact with all of the immigrant families they knew from Germany, and the Wagners were good family friends. Relatives and friends made remarks when they were saw together about their names and how it must mean they should be together. In truth, they liked it and were interested in each other, although they were too shy to try it. It wasn’t until years later that they overcame their shyness and went together, and stayed together for six more years until they decided to marry. They married in a Lutheran church, but they never went back. They were newlyweds, after all, and they were given a license to screw. It was not long after that Matthaias was born.

Chapter One

Matthaias scooped up warm, peach and brown eggs out of their hay lined nests, setting them gently in a wicker basket hung on his arm. The eggs they receive go to Picket’s Corners and what remains they keep for themselves. On Kenney’s farm their chickens were used for their eggs and sold as meat. They also grow a variety of vegetables, but their main crop is wheat. They have pigs also slaughtered there and sold for their meat. The Kenneys got by moderately well. Matthaias has grown much since his grandfather’s death. He is now thirteen, and now coming into terms with his growing body. He changed emotionally, too. When somebody asked him a simple question sometimes, it was hard for him to decide whether or not to answer calmly or get angry. It was his hormones, of course. Matthaias was haunted by what little he had heard of his grandfather. He knew the story, and he remembered the one day that he met him vividly. The grandmother he had never met died after she had her son, but nobody knows why. Matthaias had his own theory, though. He knew that she must have killed herself, unable to live with the horrors of her past. She waited until Joseph was born and handed him off to some relatives, then she offed herself. His grandfather was a madman, a rapist. That he knew from the stories and his memories. It made him wonder if those genes could be passed on. If his grandfather hated life so much, why didn’t he kill himself too? If he truly wanted to escape, Matthaias would have chosen death. He was not afraid of death, no, he found it fascinating. And why the hell shouldn’t he be? Everybody is they just won’t admit it because they’re afraid of being called strange. If somebody called Matthaias strange, he would just punch them in the face. He swung the wicker basket around, laughing. He found his own thoughts funny. Matthaias headed to the house, where he set the basket inside. His mother stood watching him, smiling. “You must really love those chickens if they make you laugh like that.” “Oh, it’s nothing, ma. I just had a funny thought.” “Well stop fooling around and go help your father. It’s time you started doing more work around here.” “Alright, I will.” He said, reluctantly. “I love you, Matthaias.” She said, with a sad look in her eyes. “Yeah, don’t give me that mushy shit.” He replied offhandedly, walking out the door. As soon as he heard the screen door shut, he hunched his back. ‘Keep your back straight or you’ll have a lump the size of a watermelon by the time you’re twenty.’ His mom nagged him every single time he slouched even a little shittle. ‘Little shittle’, his own term. Kind of like, ‘Friggin biggun’. He parted the black-eyed susans that lined their property, and took to the dirt path that separated the wheat field and the vegetable garden. He could see his father standing by the wheat thresher, his hands on his hips looking frustrated. Sure enough, it’d be ‘Gimme this, hand me that, run back to the house and do this,’ and so on. “Just in time, boy.” His father said brightly. His skin was wrinkled and tan, his blue eyes gleaming. He wore a stupid looking straw hat like he was an old timey farmer or some shit. “How so,” Matthaias said smartly, doubting that whatever he had to do for him would be any fun. “Today you get to use the thresher.” He grinned, thinking of the relaxation he would have with Matthaias doing all the work. “What if I accidentally chop down a tree? I barely know how to drive.” “Don’t be a pussy, kid. You may as well learn how, if you were a man you wouldn’t be so scared. What are you, a little cock-sucker?” His father said meanly with a genuine laugh. “I’m not scared, I am a man.” Matthaias snapped back, scaling up the side of the monstrosity and sitting in the seat. “Good, now turn it on and ease her forward gently.”

Matthaias did it perfectly the first time, and cut a clear ‘L’ through the field. “If you need any help, just call!” His father shouted over the growling engine, taking off toward the house. “You get out of work, this time old man. Do I want to do this shit? No. I want to go to the city, away from chicken shit and ‘I reckon so, Ain’t that jest swell?’ and all of the stupid hillbillies.” Matthaias brooded under his breath, brow beading with sweat, his strong arms bathed in the light of the hot sun. “I reckon the fuck so.” He said without a trace of country accent, just the flat, monotone voice of a miserable young man. He remembered every single fault of his mother and father, every sin against him. The rapist gene lived. And when his father called him a little cock-sucker, he got a kick out of it. After all, that’s how his father liked it. He was a sick faggot, and a child abuser. Matthaias hated his mother and father viciously. He wished for the day that they would die, and burn in hell. Matthaias finished with half of the field. That was enough for today. He put the wheat thresher in the barn, and came in the house for supper. He kicked off his boots and went to the bathroom where he relieved himself and washed his face and hands. He came and sat at the dinner table. “How much did you do?” Joseph asked. “Half.” “Good, finish it tomorrow.” He responded, not even looking into Matthaias’s eyes or thanking him. The rest of supper was silent except for the disgusting chewing sounds of his parents. Matthaias ate quickly, and then went up to his room without another word. He collapsed on this bed, staring up at the ceiling. Tears of anger flooded his eyes, but he didn’t cry aloud. That was for little boys. The plain white walls were plastered with movie and band posters that came in the monthly magazines he cherished. There was a bookshelf full of horror, murder mysteries and fantasy books. Placed caringly on the highest shelf was his beloved Stephen King collection, all in order. Reading was Matthaias’s only escape from this hellhole. He earned all of his books and magazines honestly, from the allowance his father gave him for working and his job at Picket’s Corners as a stock boy and janitor. Sometimes, when his money wasn’t enough, he would steal. He loved the rush he got when he walked out of the store and nothing even happened. Most of the stores in Peasleeville were too poor for a security system. Mom and dad were proud of him, too. They said, ‘Picket’s Corners pays you swell.’ But it was half true. He got up, the tears dried up now; and got ready for school tomorrow. He was in seventh grade now. Matthaias picked out a pair of greying black jeans and a navy blue Metallica shirt with holes under the armpits. He didn’t care though, it was his favorite shirt. Mom joked and said that he must be squeezing lemons under his arms, because he left big yellow stains on all of his white shirts. His nerves were sharp; he got paranoid and angry often since the end of last year. Mainly because of school, his father, and the distinct changes to his body. What was the most humiliating were the random woodies he got at the most unlikely times; especially in health class. Once when there was a diagram of the male anatomy on the board, Matthaias got up to sharpen his pencil and sure enough, somebody noticed the lump in his pants. They still called him butt-fuck and shit-lick, even though he told them he wasn’t gay and he’d dealt with them during recess. Matthaias became known for fighting. Every time he lifted his head from a book, the only reasons were to fight or get somewhere. The thing was Matthaias is pretty damn smart. He excels in Math, English, Language, Science and Social Studies. His teachers were freaked out by it because he never listened, all he had to stick his head in a textbook and it was A’s all the way. Matthias could apply himself to well, anything if he felt like it. Except for gym, he couldn’t stand that shit. He’d make sure to “forget” his gym clothes tomorrow, because he couldn’t stand running around like an idiot while overly competitive douchebags pushed him around. After brushing his teeth and showering, Matthias got into bed and dreaded his nightly visit.

2:18 AM, April 20th, 1995. Five years later.

I was in Chapter 15 of Gerald’s Game by Stephen King when the door cracked open an inch. Oh, the irony! My eyes stayed glued to the page as it closed and Joseph stood at the edge of the bed, just staring. He was completely nude, and grotesque. His beer gut partially hid his protruding dick. He had problems getting himself ready, now, and mother found herself displeased and ordering battery-operated orgasms from a lady’s magazine. Joseph’s face was sweaty and red with anger, and I guessed that he had failed with mother again. Sometimes I would hear her laugh out of nowhere when they were about to make it, and I knew what was to come. He took the book from my hand and threw it, then got onto my small bed and pulled off my pajama pants. I lost the will to fight him long ago, because every time I fought him he beat me, and then raped me harder until I bled. One day, I would have my vengeance. I could kill my father so easily, if I bit off his dick and let him bleed to death. The problem with that is it isn’t enough; I want him gone from this world completely. Hated is right, love is wrong makes more sense to me now. The pain shot up my spine and tugged at my hamstrings. I would never be used to this torture. If I were, I would be a fag. That is one thing I could never be. I detest faggots. “You’re mother died this way, Joseph. She died inside, and when you were born her insides left a festering slime all over your body. That slime was Harold’s cum and his cum is the same as yours. The rapist cum is inside you and now its inside me and it will never, never ever leave us…” Joseph gripped my face with one hand, making my lips pucker. His whole body shook; his eyes were dark and full of pure hatred. “Shut the fuck up.” He seethed, and when he loosened his fingers I screamed. “It’ll never leave us! Rapist!” Joseph said nothing, and exited me. In an instant, he was beating me with his fists and his nails scratched me, tears running down his face. When he decided he was done, he stood up and left. I pulled my pants up and pulled the blankets over myself. I exist as a tool for Joseph, one he can play with for years and years to take his anger out on Mary. One day, though, that toy will break and it will hurt him more than he hurt it. I hate my mother and father immensely. I hate Joseph the most, and I hate my mother in silence. My replies to her are sarcastic, and when she smiles at me I glare at her. It’s the way she orders me around that I hate, and how she talks down to me like I am still a child. She too, has sinned against me. I was only a boy; ignorant to the adult world. I was not used as a tool, but like a toy for mirth and pleasure. It was between her and her two ugly friends. I was manipulated and laughed at for my childish parts, tortured and pinched. It was wrong, no matter how innocent it could have seemed to them. What they did was equivalent to killing a newborn kitten all for the joy of seeing its pink tongue loll out and waggle in its death. She acts as though she is at the pedestal of good mothers, and nothing ever happened. When I hint at how she tortured me, she asks me where I came up with such silly ideas. It is your history; it is your lies, Mother Mary. I can’t help but wonder if the guilt overflows her, or if she has no regrets. I do not wish for pity, and I will not accept an apology. The only way to end my suffering is to rid my mother and father from this world forever. The night is quiet, and my eyes grow heavy. So I say, goodnight, sleep tight.

© Copyright 2017 Chrysta. All rights reserved.


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