Bentley Little: The Collection

"There you are, my love," I heard my father say behind me, and I felt a sickening feeling of disgusted horror in the pit of my stomach. "I want you to meet David."

With an animal-like howl, the little boy bounded toward us. My father stepped forward and pulled the youth to his feet, hugging him to himself. He kissed the dirty child full on the lips. With fast and furious fingers, the boy tried to un­buckle my father's belt and pull down his pants. My father laughingly pushed him away. "Now now," he said.

The boy turned to look at me, and I could see that he had an erection.

My father smiled proudly at me. "Son," he said, "I want you to meet your future stepmother."

The filthy boy looked up at me and grinned. I could see that his mossy teeth had been filed into tiny points. He howled crazily.

I don't know what happened next. I guess I was in shock. I don't think I really blacked out, but the next thing I re­member was walking down Lakewood Boulevard toward the ocean. It was dark out, night, and I was several miles away from home, so I had obviously been walking for quite a while.

I was alone.

I didn't know what I was going to do. My father had ob­viously gone totally insane. I looked up into the night sky, but the lights of Long Beach were bright and I could see very few stars. I wondered what my mother would say if she could see what was happening. I could not imagine my mother's reaction to this situation. It was totally unlike any­thing she had ever encountered in her life.

"Why did you have to die?" I whispered aloud.

My father would have to be put away, I realized. He would have to be committed. What he was doing was ille­gal, as well, and there would probably be criminal charges filed against him.

There would doubtless be a lot of publicity.

I thought of all the times my father had let me help him in his garage workshop, giving me imaginary chores to perform while he himself did the real work. He looked tall to me then, and invincible—the model man whose respect I so desperately craved and tried to earn. The man I wanted to be.

And then I saw him standing there in his immaculate suit, amongst the shambles of our living room, as a filthy wild child tried desperately to pull down his pants.

I started to cry.

I sat down on the curb and let the tears come, giving my emotions free reign, and soon I was sobbing uncontrollably, sobbing not only for the loss of my mother, but also for the loss of my father.

Ten minutes later, I walked toward home. I would not call the police, I decided. I could not do that to my father. We would handle this crisis on our own. It was a family matter, and it would be settled within the family.

The outside of the house looked deceptively calm. Every­thing was neat and ordered, in its proper place, just as it had always been. Inside, I knew, chaos reigned. Insanity pre­vailed.

The front door was unlocked. I pushed it open and walked inside. My father was just putting on his shirt. His pants were still unbuckled. Hopping around the room, laughing crazily, was the boy. The child looked up at me with unreadable gray eyes and suddenly ran forward on two legs, carrying something in his hands. Grinning up at me, he presented his offering.

It was a framed picture of my parents, smeared with shit.

I kicked the little bastard as hard as I could in the stom­ach, sending him flying. His grinning mouth contracted in­stantly into an open O of pain, and I was gratified to hear him scream.

"That's no way to treat your new mother," my father said.

I ran forward and kicked the kid again. Hard. He went down, and the heel of my shoe connected with his dirty head. Blood poured freely down his brown skin from a large cut above his scalp line.

"That's enough!" my father screamed, but it was not enough. I was not through. I pulled the kid up by his hair and punched him full in the face, feeling his nose collapse under my knuckles.

And then my father's strong hands were pulling me away. I kicked and screamed and lashed out at him, but he was stronger than I was.

I was knocked unconscious.

When I came to, I was lying in a bed, my arms and legs tied to the four posts with a thick coarse twine. My father was seated in a chair next to me, a concerned expression on his face, pressing a cold compress against my forehead. He was talking in a soothing voice—more to himself than me, I think—and I listened to him silently.

"... more than I loved your mother, but just as much I think. I can't help myself. I was lost when your mother died, lost, and I didn't know what to do with myself. I haven't felt this way in years. I'm learning how to feel again ..."

There was a series of inarticulate howls from the front of the house. My father's face brightened. "In here!" he called.

The boy bounded into the room, and a hideous stench as­saulted my nostrils. I strained against my bonds, but the twine held tight. The child looked up at me. A crust of dried blood covered the left half of his face where my foot had connected with his head, and twin rivulets of hardened blood protruded from the pulp of his broken nose. He smiled at me and I saw again his pointed teeth, covered with green­ish tartar.

My father drew the boy to him and kissed him on the lips, long and hard and lovingly.

"Father," I pleaded, almost crying. "Dad."

I could not recall ever having seen my parents kiss.

The boy moved forward, whispered something in my fa­ther's ear, and glanced furtively toward me. My father stood up and drew the compress from my forehead. "I'll see you in a while," he told me. I watched him step out of the room and close the door behind him.

The boy cavorted around the room after my father had left, grunting and snorting wildly. He squatted in the corner and relieved himself.

"Help!" I screamed as loud as I could, struggling against the twine, hoping some neighbor would hear me. "Help!"

The boy hopped onto the bed, climbing on top of me. He bent his face close to my own, and I spit at him. He let the saliva drip off the end of his nose, not moving, not wiping it off. He studied me for a moment, then said something in a foreign tongue, soft whispering words. I had never heard the words before, but they frightened me.

He stood up on his knees, and I could see his erection. He bent down to undo my pants.

"No," I cried.

He laughed and said something else in his whispering tongue. He pushed his face near my own, and I could smell his fetid breath. I gagged.

He howled loudly and unzipped my zipper.

"Untie me," I said. I did not know if he could understand me, but he seemed to understand my father. I made my voice as soothing as possible. "Please untie me."

He slipped a grimy hand under the elastic of my under­wear.

"I'll be able to help you better if I can move my hands," I said, keeping my voice calm. "Untie me."

To my surprise, he moved forward and began unknotting the twine tied around the bed posts. I lay there unmoving, letting him undo first one knot, then the other. I flexed my fingers, but I did not move or say a word as he untied my feet.

Then I kicked him hard in the chest, sending him flying off the bed. I jumped up, grabbed his head, and smashed it against the wall, leaving a smear of pale blood.

"What's going on in there?" my father asked from out­side the door. "Love, you all right?"

I leaped out of the window. The glass cut me, but I was protected to some extent by the heavy drapes. I would not have cared if I had been sliced to ribbons. I rolled on the grass and jumped up, my arms and head bleeding from dozens of tiny cuts. I ran across the street to Mr. Murphy's house. I did not bother to knock, but threw open the un­locked front door.

Mr. Murphy's living room was a shambles, chairs and ta­bles tumbled over, couch torn apart.