Autopsy of a Mind

Chapter 50: Outtake: Howard Hunt (3)

[Henry is a cry-baby. I don't like Henry.]

He was ten when his mother got pregnant again. He was old enough to know what it meant, and he was unhappy with his father forcing himself on his mother and impregnating her. He had grown up faster than other kids because his father had ensured that he be disciplined at every turn. Whatever little rebellious moments he had were quenched by the raging fire of his father's wrath.

He realized that he had to protect his mother, that the demon in his nightmares was his father. He needed to vanquish this demon so that they could live happily ever after. His mother grew more sorrowful as the pregnancy continued.

She became more restless, unable to keep her temper when his father screamed at her. He was happy that his father had diverted all his anger on him and not towards his mother. He was very pleasant to his mother, on occasion, a rare occurrence in the ten years of his existence. At least she was safe for some time.

When Henry was born he had ten fettle toes and fingers. He was a cute ball of fur, but his constant crying left Howard sour. His mother spent all her time tending to the new baby who only knew how to poop, eat, and cry. He hated that it needed constant attention.

Henry slept between his parents. Howard slept alone. It was amazing that he didn't remember getting such a treatment, his mother who had always cherished him had suddenly forsaken him for the new child. He had been left untended to, sometimes being babysat b the neighbours, always hoping not to be bullied by those kids who called him ridiculous names.

Kids were harsh. Sometimes Howard felt like he would rather spend his life with his father than live a day associating with them.

His father sometimes came home and fed the baby and patted him to sleep. His father always spoke to him in single words, he didn't spare him a glance. It was humiliating for him to lose out on something that caused such a big nuisance in their lives.

Even when he was hit, the only reprieve was when scared Henry would cry out. Only then would his father tend to the baby as his mother tended to him. His mother who had flown between them to stop him from hitting had taken to sitting in the corner and crying her eyes out as she watched him being hit.

"I need to live for Henry," she would tell him at night when she came to tuck him into bed. His bruised eye would not open, but he would squint through to look at her disappointing face once. "I'm sorry," she would apologize, her voice pleading for him to understand.

He didn't understand how her mother couldn't protect him. How would her mother live if his father killed him in a fit of anger? Was he not important enough to protect? Was Henry more important than him? Had he been forsaken?

It all changed the day they went out on a family picnic. Howard silently trudged behind as his father led the group. Little Henry was in his mother's arms, sleeping soundly as they moved to the spot where they would rest. When they reached, his father commanded for refreshments.

The bottle of beer was taken out, as was his little cup from which he would drink. His mother sat silently and watched him chug the beer down, reminding him that the way back was rough terrain and he needed to be sober.

Howard felt his bladder protest. He wanted to go pee, but asking for his father's permission was not an option. It wasn't until his mother noticed his contorted expression that she asked him to go tend to himself but within a reasonable distance. He scampered away, clearly in discomfort but didn't get far enough before he heard his father mutter under his breath.

"Nuisance," he heard. His heart broke a little, but he didn't want to show it on his face.

A strange fear gripped him while he was coming back. He feared that they would leave without him. He hurried back only to fall when they were in his view. His mother sat, her breasts exposed as she fed the baby, unable to get up. His grumbling father got up and tended to him. That evening she overheard the conversation from downstairs.

"You really do care for the boy," his mother said. He heard his father burst out into a laugh.

"I would have helped anyone in that situation," he replied.

Howard moved away from the site, knowing that he would get a beating if he was found. He cried himself to sleep that night.

Truly for a moment, he had felt that his father's harshness was just a faade, that the man loved him and just pretended to be angry all the time, but his imagination had been wrong. He would have helped 'anyone.'

Howard was just anyone.

Inconsequential.

Unimportant.

Alone.

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