When I was six, my father died of cancer and we, my mother, my two sisters and I, had to make it on our own. It wasn't easy to start with, but life went on and it was good. That is, until my mother met another man; I had just turned eight. He was a carpenter and, as often happened in his line of work, had two fingers missing on each hand. That did not make a trust-inspiring impression on a kid at the first meeting. I was afraid of him and very standoffish. It may seem like it's childishly naïve or mean to let oneself by upset by such things, but fairly soon it turned out that the first impression hadn't been wrong. His external appearance wasn't nearly as hateful as his interior. He was married, and, because his wife had money, he didn't want a divorce (thank God). But he wanted my mother anyway, and so she gave in to a three-way. To top it all, he was a terrible despot, saw himself as the head of the family and always took the seat at the head of the table as if rightfully his. That this presumption could hurt him sometime apparently never dawned on him.
There were a lot of arguments with my older sisters, with a lot of shouting and even some physical stuff. I never said anything about it. I was a quiet child who had not emerged from himself yet, in part to avoid stress, of course. Because of the way I acted, I was "good child" as far as he was concerned; one evening he opined that I should call finally call him "Pop". But I refused, and told him, in these exact words: "You can kiss my ass." An expression that I never used, but felt it was justified under the circumstances. He started yelling instantly and my mother actually took his side, so I had to go to my room.
That's when the hate started. I was only eight years old but felt pure hatred in my heart. So I decided he would be punished. Really punished. In our kitchen we had as seating a padded corner bench; there was always a small box stuffed with toothpicks on the table. Revenge would be easy, since I knew that the fat carpenter, without looking, would let himself fall onto the seat. My mother was fixing supper; I pretended to play with the toothpicks, but took one and stuck in the middle of the corner seat's padding, exactly on the hated guy's spot. I put the other toothpicks back in the box, went to my room and waited. My mother called us to the evening meal; I stayed in my room, listening. There was a fairly loud crack, followed instantly by a roaring yell. As you might expect from a kid, I had wanted the toothpick to stab him right in his butthole. But it missed. He had drilled a hole into his right testicle instead. He bled a lot, and my mother called the emergency medic.
He swore a blue streak and immediately accused me, but he couldn't do anything because of the pain. My two sisters couldn't wipe the grins off their faces anymore, and from that day on I was their hero. The right testicle was removed in the hospital.
I never saw this man again. I know it wasn't the right thing to do but, to this day, I'm not sorry about it. He deserved it. I never again in my life was violent or caused any other human being harm; but I'm convinced to this day that he was a bad person, and I'm glad that as s child of eight I found a way to let him know what I thought of him.
Posted on 29.09.2009, 02:05:25 CET Place: Unterdelle 7, 44388 Dortmund
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