Bane

September 27, 1993

The fighting never stopped.

Father came home from work and he was an angry man. Mother was never happy to see him. Father... helped... mother see things his way, usually with an open hand, but after their last argument, he made the discovery using a closed hand is far more effective.

The fighting never affected me, though Father made me angry the way he treated mother.

Those things his behaviors drove her to do.

Mother drank the same ugly poisons so many cling to in times of hardship, the same poisons the smiling bartenders serve when they ask what it's going to be, and mother loved the drink... and mother loved me.

This is no past tense love, where mother loved me, but now she's with Jesus. This is the love where mother loved me as Lot's daughters loved him following the fall of Sodom and Gamorrah.

Mother loved me, and why not?

What shoulder was there ever on to cry than a son who understood her pain?

What embrace was never more important than a son who needed holding?

What kiss could not better sate her pain, than mine?

Did Oedipus Rex not indulge in so forbidden a fruit, and if so, why not should I?

Martin Bellar is not - was not - a good man. When he began lashing mother with a cord, I strangled him with it.

I thought mother would be angry, but instead we got a new garden, a beautiful tree, and now Martin Bellar is finally put to good use.

Of course, when the medical examiner failed to show, there were... inquiries, and investigations, but far as anyone knew, father left us; left us behind, a wife, and son in need of a husband, and father.

How could he do that to us? Mother wept; I wept. We mourned, and we begged the law to find him, and return him home to us...

...but father never left home, and never would. He exists only in the trees, the grass, and the flowers. Martin Bellar is gone, and behind him his legacy of violence is done.

We are all that survived his reign of terror, Simon and Elise Bellar, a loving son and his mother, and their beautiful, beautiful garden.

✟ ☧ ✟

"Ladies and gentleman," The D.J announced with a voice that sounded very much alive, and full of excitement. "That was Chance, paroled for your viewing pleasure. Remember our girls work for tips, and tips only, so be sure to take care of our detainees because it's the only buck they'll make here at The Lockdown!"

The "cafeteria" was beginning to fill with more patrons now. On the second story, there were more cells. There were guards up there too, but something about the way they looked and the way they carried their selves cried real. These were bouncers, The Lockdown's security team. These guys were no joke, dressed in black rip-stop cargo pants, heavy boots, and body armor. They looked like private army, or militia, wearing gas masks as if they were about to raid a crack house or a take down a crime lord.

"Frightening aren't they?"

"Hell yeah they are." Gerald Dean feigned surprise, and turned slowly to the voice of the Club Manager, and current owner.

"Laurence Braun." Laurence extended a hand, and Gerald shook it thrice.

"I'm Gerald Dean."

"So, Mr. Dean? How do you like my establishment, Mr. Dean?"