Chapter 3 – I Wouldn’t Call It Love …

An excerpt from ‘Kookaburra Me’ – Copyright © 2020 by Michael A. Kuch


A grown man sexually assaults a small boy, feeds on his soul, and leaves him to wither in shame and disgrace …”  

I will not say his name. 

Vampires aren’t worthy to hear my voice.  How it breaks in silent screams during endless Night Terrors.  Out-of-body premonitions haunt me.  The horror of falling – breaking the axis of levitation – pursued, hunted, eaten.  My mind blanking, shattering, erasing … stuttering to find solace, losing grasp, never coming home because home never existed. 

Where is my peace when my heart is stilled?  When a breathless exhale asphyxiates my larynx into submission?  I’m mute when I dream.  The apparition frozen in the mirror when I awake looks a lot like me. 


knrFa. Frank. 

I typed every letter with my head down.  It’s not writer’s block that makes me stop.  Tears can’t stop me.

“I can’t have his name near mine.  Frank is a predator of children.  Carnivorous Pedophile.  He ate my childhood … A good portion of my adulthood … A chunk of my manhood … This is what’s left of what never was.”

I’ve hated him as I should.  Quietly in my space. Perhaps, you’ve noticed.


Because hate should placate my pain …

I can’t justify hate or pain.  Not anymore. I won’t tolerate my silence another moment.

It’s no coincidence that the Beast and I are related.  It was a matter of convenience for him.  Being hand fed to Frank – an adult first cousin, my mother’s nephew, son of her oldest late brother.

“Frank is a sick cunt.  The profane descriptive fits.  I’ll wash my mouth with soap once I cleanse my Soul with Love. I’m entitled. Let me play the victim just this once. No apology. My Adolph.  My Idi.  My Vlad.  Demon Seed.”


In a mental health facility long ago …

He did unspeakable things to other people.

Like scald a woman with boiling water. 

I’m not alone, not the only child to be violated by the Butcher of Bronte.


It’s better this way – for both of us – him mostly. 

Frank’s heart was dead when he took mine; left in a room with him while the adults drank and laughed and talked in the kitchen and backyard. 

About what, mom? 

“What Frank might do if left alone with a small boy … his scrawny little cousin?  It wasn’t his first lemonade stand …”


Was force his Evil Will upon me – inhale me – withered My Innocent Being.  

Usurped my childhood and replenished the void it left with fear.  


So, we never spoke about it.  Mom did though.  She told people in disgust.  Gossipy.  Not the right people. 


The Catholic Church?  The Pious Men in Black with the white clerical collars?  Good one, right.  Let the Hyenas hunt.  The Holy Hypocrites had conspired once before in perpetrating a lie I believed, albeit on mom’s oath, with a forged Baptism certificate. 

Police?  Doctor?  Child shrink?  Therapist?  Children’s Aid Society?  My relatives?  My older brothers? 

“My God, My God, My God …”

Where was my father on the only day I needed the asshole to strangle a wicked man to within a breath of his life for violating his child?  Answer me, sir … 


I’ve figured it out – this can’t be right – it shouldn’t have happened, but it did … 

I’ve asked God … Why Father?  The short answer never made sense.  The long answer is not mine.    

I can’t write this.  I don’t want to write any of this.  I must write this.

Fifty years isn’t long enough.  This is the last false start.  I’m making it to the end this time – God, please listen – let me know if I get it right. 


Hear me, diablo cugino.  My voice is in your head.  Stop the crazy for a moment and listen. 

“Do you remember me?”

You had me.  Tasted me.  Tried me out.  Subjected me to your vile, immoral carnal pleasures.  Please don’t forget.  Please try hard.  Please remember me.  Never forget the little boy.  The shame.  The filth.  The decay.  The perversion. My flesh peeled back.  The stench of my innocence on your filthy breath …

“Don’t you fucking forget me … don’t you dare die before you repent, Frank.”


You owe me something you can never repay

No do-overs or giving back on this one. 

This is all you get – a thousand words and the last of my tears and none of my heart and no more of my fear – I owe you this after you sucked out My Soul. 

It wasn’t yours to take. 


Tattooed fear and weakness and anger …

Stunted me emotionally for a good bit.  

“Made me afraid of the dark, afraid of men – unworthy of the few good women I’ve cared about because I was incapable to relate to love, to identify love, to know love, to accept love, to be love …”

Fear of what I might become.  What I have become.  What I am not.  Not isn’t good.


Ruined me – then – for every day to come …

“Every tender, loving moment … during every sensual engagement with a woman, there you were on the bed hovering over me … crawling under my skin … mocking my manhood.  Cheating the world out of the best part of me … the part that hasn’t happened.”

And here, again.  One last time then I promise we’re done. 

Not another dark day; there will be no more flesh for you to feed on. 


A Complete Man – There it is – Tainted.  Impure. 

Not a proper man like Hemingway or Tarzan. 

I am a male, but that’s not enough to make it in my world, or to escape the one I left behind.  A conditioned, engineered, rationed, derivative … fictional simile of a falsified man. 

“Tormented between the chasm of broken and healed, and lost and forsaken, lives acceptance.  Acceptance is a death sentence for hope, and that’s not good enough for me.”


“You’re a monster.”

You broke me.  All of me.  Took the It from me before my It blossomed.

Another thing I’ll confess:

I lied.

I mislead you when I said I’d never be a complete man.


I’m very good inside and out …

Strong All Over … You had me, but couldn’t keep me …

This is Me The Man Talking, Brother. I’ve a heart, a soul, a mind – a body, a face, a mouth – a voice, a choice, a plea:

“Please Die Inside Me …”


My Faith is Forgiveness.  My Fate is Forgiveness.

And so, I share my Fate with you in exchange for your pain.  Your suffering.  Your guilt.  Your sin. 

My forgiveness.  My gift is love – Take My Love – It’s all I have.  Now go.  Leave me and the Others in peace.  We’re done here.  Fini.

“May God have Mercy on you …”

Photo by Rahul from Pexels

5 thoughts on “Chapter 3 – I Wouldn’t Call It Love …

  1. Writer of Words, etc

    It ends with what feels like poetic prose. It didn’t feel like it up until now, the words you crafted your story with. But it ends this way. These words are your strength that begin your journey toward healing.

    This is your catharsis. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

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