Writers Tricks of the Trade MARCH-APRIL 2015 | Page 37

PRESS CONTROL THEN CLICK THE COVER TO PURCHASE A BOOK I'VE GOTTA BE ME (Cont’d) shot everywhere: on the floor, the walls, on him, on me. I can still hear some of the female students screaming and crying in the back of the room. But I didn't give a shit. I didn't care about them. Then I got the idea about castrating the fuck-the Italian way of punishing a rapist. I wanted to take away his manhood, humiliate him. 1 wanted him to feel what he made my little girl feel; but ten times more. So I sliced both his testicles. When it came time for me to cut off his penis and stuff it in his mouth, there was so much blood that I couldn't find the fuckin' thing. I heard somebody vomit in the room. Me. I'm just saying I had another idea so you will understand the order of events. But every act was happening instinctually, as if I were a lion hopping on its prey. I just wanted to tear him apart. I was going with the flow. Whatever will hurt him more. That's what I was listening for. That's what I wanted. The more hurt I could inflict, the better. If you've ever been in any kind of a fight, then you know what I mean. Things happen so fast, yet they slow down. You have to look for your opening, your opportunity. You have to sense what your enemy's weakness is and seize on it. I learned that in the ring; I learned it even better on the street. So I pulled the knife back over my head and I thought-yes, actually thought for the first time since this thing started out in the hallway-that I should plunge the blade right into his fucking heart and end him. He's a pitiful, bloody mess writhing on the floor, I thought. He doesn't look so tough now. Doesn't look like he's ready to corner a defenseless girl in the bathroom now, does he? I bet now he knows who I am! Something-a voice, a conscience, God-who knows-told me not to kill him. And the overriding thought was: he's not worth it. I just wanted to teach him a lesson. I think I did that. The commotion from the students, who had been dissecting frogs just before I started dissecting the punk, brought me back to reality. I dropped the knife on the floor. I didn't look at the students who were screaming and huddled in the back. I walked calmly out of the classroom and back down the corridor toward the exit. My shirt and pants were covered with punk blood. At the exit, a speechless security guard stared at me. He didn't know what to do. He sure as fuck wasn't going to apprehend me. I asked him for a cigarette. With a shaking hand, he gave me one, then lit it for me. After I cut that young punk's balls off, I knew it was time to get some help. Somewhere deep inside me, I knew it. Not that he didn't deserve what he got. He did. But one thing I have learned in life is that "deserves" has nothing to do with anything. I don't deserve to be alive. I don't deserve to be happy. I don't even deserve to be telling this story. Not after all the shit I've done in my life. No way. But I'm here still, alive and well, and I'm telling my story-the story of a guy who would be, could be, and probably should be dead, if not for a good woman, a strong constitution, and a big-shot father. WRITERS’ TRICKS OF THE TRADE PAGE 27 MAR-APR 2015