It started when he was 15.
Pieces of her to play with...it didn't sound like the worst idea. Probably wasn't his best. His teachers would have told you the same, had anyone bothered to ask.
Knives to filet and carve with. Cleavers. Hell, machetes, hatchets, axes, all in the shed and as handy as a sword. His mind was on which pieces and the best possible game.
It should have just been a simple play on words, but it turned into a lifelong addiction. Words and ideas came quick then - much quicker than now. His beat,
his attack...all slower than before. Even the fire burns more sluggishly now.
He'd be the first to tell you - the idea came from movies. Such bad, bad movies. Poorly written, and filmed for budget audiences; the types that frequented the drive-in
picture shows on a Tuesday night with a case of Hamm's in the back seat. He noticed the audiences loved every moment, predictable as it was.
A group of friends.
Some pretty teens.
Lack of supervision.
Cigarettes, reefer, a few cold beers.
Don't go in there!
Watch out!
Chop! Chop! Chop!
The names changed.
The background changed.
But the outcome was always the same.
He wanted pieces of her to play with.
Another summer, another drive-in, another movie.
Even more predictable, but the crowds went wild.
In a way, so did he.
He started to think about pieces of her to play with.
No, not the girl in the car with him. Not even the girl on the big screen.
He wasn't moved by the scream queens.
Lines were forming in his mind's eye.
Like the Sunday jumble, he just had to sort it out.
Axes to grind.
Hammers to pound.
Knives to sharpen.
Keeping things quiet; not making a sound.
He typed out his thoughts and shared them at school. He impressed his teacher. The man suggested he try.
Pieces of her to play with - barely made the pulpy back pages.
But he thought he knew better. Such things just weren't done in the circles he moved in. He had his name surgically removed. Best to keep it quiet. But the word got out.
And no one knew he did it. Well...one did. JW's secretary sent the check for $50...like it was a prize. He could make more shoveling snow.
But it all began with pieces of her. And he played. Never the same way twice. He always hid his tracks, even when it was difficult.
He stayed silent after difficult words in a foreign cemetery. He couldn't read the names but still bowed in silent respect.
A boy recognized him once in the library. He left without a farewell.
He went on to a life with axe in hand. He traveled the globe, unable to escape memories of pieces of her to play with.
Later came notes, and reviews; stories big and small. The tales grew perverse and people tried to track him down.
Again he went silent - but it never lasts.
The memories still haunt him. The voices of the past still linger.
He keeps his knives sharp and still thinks about pieces of her to play with.
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