If you think about it, sir, maybe it was self-defence after all.

I saw him for the first time and it was just confusing, you know. He
was newborn then. I should have been happy, like those other
teary-eyed pussies outside the maternity ward too conscious to smoke
cigars to kill the tension. He was newborn then. Kicking squealing
bundle of frigging joy. The nurse who brought him in had a nice ass.
That's all I saw. Then I saw him, that bloody slimy oozing noise
machine. Rat-like face, albino-rat, mind you. Fuzzy downy hair. I
wanted, I wanted to carry him like the lions did, by the scruff of his
neck. God he was so disgusting.
Now don't go thinking I'm a psychologically depraved fuck of an excuse
of a human being, no. My other kid, he loved me. He's a real boy. They
say he took after his mother, they lied. He was mine, I saw him and I
saw me. My heart beat for him. My boy he was. My son. See? That's
normal enough, innit? Normal as normal can be.
But when Junior-Junior came along, I saw them all in the first moment
in the white light of the cheap hospital wing with yellow peeling
walls. The idiotic grin on my wife's face, god, she looked so proud to
have birthed that monster and my son. That little kid looking on so
adoringly from the sidelines. Like a donkey in a Nativity play looking
on at the runty little Jesus, I don't hate God, now officer, don't put
that down in your records, it was, it was a metaphor. I was being
literary. My son went from lead actor to understudy in that one
second and my heart bled for him.
No, no.
That's not when I snapped.
I'm not an animal.
I put my best false face, my best pretend grin. I pretended to like
that tufty little thing.
As he grew chubbier and cuter, I didn't mind him so much anymore.
He was so darned cute, putting things in his mouth when he shouldn't,
pooping in his little white pants, and giggling all the time. Like a
puppy.
Who doesn't like puppies?
My wife, god, she was an indecisive cunt though. Told me I had to love
my kids, now she tells me, "Larry", she says. "Larry, you can't
neglect Junior. He needs you too."
The fuck he needed me. He was grown-up. He was old. JJ was YOUNG. It
was simple, but Junior didn't understand.
"Larry", she said, "You gotta learn to divide your love, both your
little boys need their father."
I stayed awake that night thinking about that.
The fat bitch was right.
But I couldn't just divide my love like that. Love's precious, y'know?
Not a slice of pie, not Lola the neighbourhood whore, that slag's gone
around more than a hash-filled cupcake at Woodstock. I'm not a
love-whore. I couldn't just tear off hunks of my love and just GIVE it
to people.
Love's sacred and unique like that, yeh? It's, it's exclusive like that, innit?
THAT'S when I snapped.
So you see, officers, that's why I killed them.
Junior doesn't talk cute anymore, and JJ doesn't giggle or poop in his
pants. I don't love either of them anymore. They're not even alive for
God's sake, what am I, a dead-person-lover, like those stoners down
Main Street who orgasming over Kurt Cobain?
That's my explanation.
Happy now, officers?
Can I have my phone call now?




(So I found this in the middle of a bunch of solved problems in my math register this morning and I had no idea where it came from. It's something I've never tried writing about so you'll have to excuse the novice-ness of it all.)