Written by Alexander Cameron
HE WAS DOING that horrible thing with his throat again—gorp gorp gorp—like an empty bottle of sauce being wrung dry.
“Breathe through your nose, Albrecht,” I said.
“Yes daddy.”
It wouldn’t do to have him breathing like that, waddling around, gasping down air like a wet hose. I didn’t feel like learning him with the belt right now either. Instead, I watched his stumpy fingers, white with tension, dragging the crayon across the page. He was hard to look at.
“What are you drawing?” I asked.
“Yew an’ me, daddy,” he churled.
He held up the drawing, proud as all get out. There it was—me and him, oafishly rendered in purple and green crayon. This infantile infatuation with drawing was already hard enough to stomach, but all the worse by just how utterly useless he was at it.
“Daddy’s not purple, though, is he?”
“Ough…” he said, looking at his drawing sheepishly.
He was never easy. It had taken so long for him to be delivered to me. That was an age ago, now. Christ, how old was he? Nearly six?
“Daddy…” he whimpered.
“It’s fine, Albrecht.”
His little mutton face lit up, clearly misinterpreting what I meant by “fine”.
“Alby did good?”
“…Sure.”
“Go ou’sside today?”
“Maybe,” I said.
The smile slid from his face.
“You know why.”
“Ouhh. Thass rite,” he mumbled. “Becos’ of the fee-males.”
“Albrecht!” I said, scooping his chunky and squat little body into my arms. “Who told you that?”
He giggled and burped a little as I tickled under his chin.
“Yew did daddy! Tee-hee!” he squealed.
I looked at my design, the magic that I had conjured. He was my image. The tools at my disposal were wanting and my technique was crude, but I had wrought him from semen and chicken embryo like clay. My image. My boy. All mine. And he was being good today. Good boys should get what they want.
“Maybe we can go outside today.”
He wriggled and wrestled out of my arms in excitement, landing awkwardly on the carpeted floor with a dull thud.
“Realy? Realy? Realy?” he shrieked, tugging at my pant leg.
“But what do we have to do first?” I asked.
“Uuuuu…” he said. “Wee gottsta… eat?”
I shook my head.
“Gottsta… nap time?”
“No Albrecht. Get dressed.”
“Yea!”
***
I tied his shoes, and stood back to admire him in his little outfit. Even in the haze of the mirror, polished shoes, tweed pants, and an oxford button-down did not belie his appearance. He was singularly grotesque. He smiled at me from his big, lopsided mouth. His teeth were sparse bastions of dull yellow, nestled next to grouper-esque lips. He had only a few thin strands of hair, and his head was lumpy and somewhat cone-shaped—a phrenologist could study his skull shape for decades and come to no certain conclusions.
“People are going to be mean to you, Albrecht,” I said, kneeling beside him to fix his collar.
“Thas’ okay daddy. Ail be nice.”
“No. You need to make them regret it.”
He looked confused. He always did, but more than usual.
“People will be mean to you because of how you are.”
“But ai’m nice?”
“What if they hit you?” I asked.
“Ouhh…”
I stood up, and pushed him a little.
“Do something, Albrecht.”
“Ionwanna.”
I pushed him again. A little harder.
“You little retard. Are you going to cry if they call you that?”
“Ionno whass tha’ means, daddy,” he stammered.
He was on the verge of tears. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.
“You need to be strong, Albrecht,” I said. “Fight back.”
“Nuhh…”
“Fight back.”
“Ionnwanna.”
I jabbed him in the chest with my finger. “Fight.”
“Noohh!” he screamed.
He jabbed me in the ribs with his stubby little hand, but ended up just pushing himself away. He toppled over backwards, screaming and flailing like an idiot, smacking his head on the dresser on the way down. There was a brief moment of silence, before the wailing started up like an air-raid siren.
“Look what you’ve done,” I said. “Get up, or we’re not going to the park.”
The wailing only stopped for short little desperate gulps of air in between.
“Get up.”
***
“Th’ hat is hot daddy,” he said.
The park was up ahead. It was about midday, and the sun was blaring down intensely. I could feel a line of perspiration start to swell at my hairline. He took off the deerstalker and started throwing it in the air.
“Keep it on, Albrecht,” I said.
“Ion care about som’ sun!” he moaned.
“Wear it.”
I snatched the hat mid-toss, and jammed it down on his head.
“Ough,” he huffed.
The park was almost vacant at this time of day, spare a handful of children shrieking and laughing by the playground, at the far end. I pulled out a well-worn tennis ball, and threw it to Albrecht. It hit his chest, and dropped to the floor. He was staring at the far end.
“Albrecht.”
He was starting to make that sucking noise with his throat—gorp gorp gorp.
“I wan’ go paygroun!” he said.
He’d have to learn eventually, but was now really the time? I wanted his strength to deter and intimidate. I wanted him to be an obvious target, but an unexpected victor.
“Alright.”
“Realy?” he shrieked.
“Go on.”
He was almost vibrating with excitement.
“Go on, Albrecht.”
He exploded from a standstill, lurching towards the playground at a considerable speed, thick little legs thumping against the ground, but as he drew closer, he slowed to a jog, then a walk, a shuffle, before stopping completely. He was about twenty feet away from the playground. The other kids had stopped playing. There were about five of them. I walked to a nearby tree, and pulled out my vape. Albrecht shuffled over to the kids. I could hear that damn breathing from here.
“What do you want?” said one of the kids, the tallest, a boy.
“Ough…” Albrecht stammered.
They all began to jump down from the slides and monkey-bars.
“What was that?” another asked, shorter, red hair, freckles, a boy.
“I wan’…tew play?” Albrecht asked.
The tall one burst out into laughter.
“You look so stupid,” he said. “And ugly.”
“We don’t want to play with you,” said the shorter redhead.
I could see his shoulder seize up, and his stubby hands curl into tight fists. The kids had encircled him completely now.
“Why are you dressed like that?” the redheaded boy asked. “You look like an idiot.”
“Am nott!”
“Yeah you are!” the taller one said. “Stupid hat, too.”
A different child, a fat one, snatched Albrecht’s hat, and threw it across to the tall one.
“Thass mine!” Albrecht howled, lunging at the hat. The tall one simply held it out of his reach, cackling.
“You’re so stupid,” he chortled, tossing it over to another child.
“Nuhh… thass mine! Mine!” he screeched.
I could feel my jaw tighten in embarrassment. He flailed miserably as the kids taunted him, hat sailing just out of reach.
“Hey, hey! Stop that,” said a woman who had just arrived at the park.
The kids scattered, hat sailing into the dirt. Albrecht snatched it and sat on the ground, sniveling. The woman approached him, knelt down beside him and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Nnguhh…” Albrecht, stammered.
“It’s okay. What’s your name?”
“A..Alby,” he said.
“Are your parents around Alby?”
Albrecht nodded. I was the only other adult around. Her eyes found mine, and she glared at me with such a look that I stiffened. I felt frozen to the spot. What the fuck was she looking at?. What did you want me to do, you stupid bitch?
“That’s alright, Alby,” she said. “Do you still want to play?”
He looked up at her, his big, soft eyes still wet with tears. He nodded.
“We can play,” she continued. “My daughter loves to play!”
She motioned, and a little girl ran up beside her. She had pigtails and dark hair. Her expression dropped when she got a good look at Albrecht.
“Harriet, this is Alby,” said the mother. “ Would you like to play with him?”
Her smile quickly returned, and she nodded her head. “I get to be the fairy princess!” she said excitedly.
The woman looked back to Albrecht. “Would you like to play with her?”
Albrecht wobbled to his feet, and stared at Harriet. I saw his little stubby hands clench and unclench. Do it. His breathing was laboured as he toddled over towards her.
“Nhgh…” he stammered.
The woman stood up, as if to pick up her daughter and run.
“Ough… Okay!” he exclaimed.
I watched on as my son and that girl played in the sun. She chased him around the monkey bars and the swing-set. They giggled and shrieked.
What a waste. What a fucking waste.
Author Bio:
Alex is a third-year Creative and Professional Writing student, and still calls it that despite the “and Professional” part of the major being removed from the title for some time now. You can find his work published in Glass Magazine, of which he is now one of the editors, and literally nowhere else. When he’s not thinking about how good Andor was, he is immersing himself in Brisbane’s literary and creative community, honing his appreciation of Brisbane as a place to write about, rather than escape from. He finds great joy in the strange and esoteric, and hopes one day to write a book that gets super famous after he’s long dead, so he doesn’t have to deal with all that press tour crap.