trigger happy; or, where's eden at?
The story that started it all. Ironically, this installment of "Sins of the Children" is an adaptation of Genesis. Heresy, blasphemy, etc. unintended.
For He So Loved the World
I was eight when Papa found me on the side of the road, hungry, dirty and, for the most part, naked. He’d asked his driver to pull over so he could take a look at me, but picked me up himself, held me to his chest on the way back to his house. It wasn’t until I was a little older that I realized I’d ruined the white suit he’d worn that day.
Why did he take me in?
“Xander,” he laughed, straightening my collar, “I may have many ‘children,’ those wonderful, beautiful people you live with and care for you, but I’ve never had a son. They call me ‘Papa,’ but it means the entire world more when you do.”
It meant the entire world to hear him call me his son.
And Papa really did have many wonderful, beautiful “children”: men and women who lived in the house with us. The women each had their own bedrooms where they would “entertain” guests. The men had to share bedrooms, but they took turns running the “games” in Papa’s attic.
I was eight when I learned words like “hustle” and “whore,” when I learned that the smell of burning roses meant some of Papa’s children were “getting high,” when I learned not to touch poorly discarded syringes or “rubbers,” when I learned the basement smelled of pennies because that’s where people were taken to be “taken care of.”
Still, Papa let me go anywhere in the house, let me talk to anyone in the house. Papa and his house and everything in it were my entire world.
I was eleven when I asked Papa if I would grow up to work for him.
“Xander,” he laughed, the cigar smoke pouring from his mouth thick and acrid, but familiar, “you’re my son and this is as much your house as it is mine. You won’t work for me, but with me.”
It meant the entire world to know I belonged with Papa.
From that day on, Papa taught me, created me himself. First, he let me sit with him in business meetings: to interview women who wanted to live in his house, men who wanted to deal for him, all sorts of people who wanted to become guests allowed to use his services. Papa taught me to watch their eyes. He said it didn’t matter what came out of their mouths, but what came out of their eyes. Holding his hand, big and hot and a ring on every finger, I squeezed once if the person was acceptable, twice if not.
In the beginning, it was hard to do. Even though they were nice to me, the only people I’d known, Papa’s children, had eyes that said nothing. The new people had eyes that said everything: that they didn’t like or trust Papa, or that they wanted to use or hurt Papa. No one wanted to love Papa.
“Xander,” he laughed, fixing my necktie after I mentioned this, “I don’t need them to love me. I have you for that.”
It meant the entire world to realize I really did love Papa.
Next, I learned how to play baccarat and poker. I learned that the chips meant money but that sometimes Papa had to lose it to make sure guests came back to play and that’s when he’d win it back. Once I understood, he let me sit in the attic when he had games. Next, I learned how to scrub cocaine into my gums to make sure it was cut properly, because that cocaine went to his guests and bad cocaine meant bad business. I learned how to weigh out the cocaine for the dealers, how to calculate the amount of money that was supposed to come back. Next, I learned how to load and shoot a pistol, a rifle, a shotgun. I learned how to put on a silencer, how to aim with my whole arm. Papa said he hoped I would never need to fire a single round.
Papa said he was happy to teach me. I was happy he was happy. It was his world and mine.
I was sixteen when Papa gave me Lily. He said I had to know how to use a woman to manage the women in the house; I would be responsible for “training” all of the new ones. Lily was nineteen and new to the house. She was smart and beautiful and honest about being greedy. She didn’t like that she wouldn’t be getting paid to sleep with me. So I hit her when I was through with her. Then Papa had her sent to the basement.
She was the first and last of Papa’s women to expect money.
Soon after Lily, Papa found Lucy like he had found me.
“Xander,” he laughed, beckoning me into the room with one hand, petting the head of a girl sitting at his feet with the other, “meet Lucy.”
Lucy was fourteen and skinny and, for the most part, naked. Her hair, unnaturally red, coiled around her bony shoulders and down her arms like a living, breathing, possessive tongue of fire. Freckles peppered every bit of her I could see, made darker by the alien paleness of her skin. Her eyes were already empty and quiet, the irises brown like she cried blood not salt but she hadn’t done it in a while, hadn’t bothered to peel off the scabs.
Would I be training her?
Papa cupped one side of Lucy’s face, consuming it with his enormous palm, his hungry gold-and-diamond fingers.
“Xander,”-he wasn’t laughing-“you are never to touch Lucy.”
Lucy was the first and last thing Papa denied me. But I wanted her.
Now it was always the two of us, me and Lucy, his son and his pet, at Papa’s sides. Papa rarely dressed her; Lucy rarely looked away from me, even when she was catering to him. I could smell the caked blood in her stare, smell her freckle-spattered porcelain skin burning under her hair. She knew I wanted her.
And one night, she let me. She snuck into my bed and woke me, willowy limbs curled around me like Papa’s hand around her face, like her hair around her shoulders. Her eyes, more hollow than usual, devoured what little light lingered in my bedroom. I had to be gentle. Her skin looked like marble but bruised like fruit. Even in the near-darkness, I could see Papa’s hands on her hips, dwarfing mine. Afterward, she spoke to me for the first and last time, telling me that the hell outside of Papa’s house was more tolerable than the hell within. But Papa’s house wasn’t hell at all, I told her.
It was my entire world.
The next morning, this morning, Lucy told Papa what we did. Papa sent her to the basement.
Will I be taken there, too?
“Xander,” he laughs, but his eyes are empty, silent, and it’s the first time I’ve noticed, “that would be too merciful of me. So I’m going to let you choose: shoot me or yourself.”
He shoves a pistol in my hands. It looks huge compared to when it was in his. I can smell the ammo, like one of the bullets is slowly burning its way out.
But the barrel is cold against my temple.
For He So Loved the World
I was eight when Papa found me on the side of the road, hungry, dirty and, for the most part, naked. He’d asked his driver to pull over so he could take a look at me, but picked me up himself, held me to his chest on the way back to his house. It wasn’t until I was a little older that I realized I’d ruined the white suit he’d worn that day.
Why did he take me in?
“Xander,” he laughed, straightening my collar, “I may have many ‘children,’ those wonderful, beautiful people you live with and care for you, but I’ve never had a son. They call me ‘Papa,’ but it means the entire world more when you do.”
It meant the entire world to hear him call me his son.
And Papa really did have many wonderful, beautiful “children”: men and women who lived in the house with us. The women each had their own bedrooms where they would “entertain” guests. The men had to share bedrooms, but they took turns running the “games” in Papa’s attic.
I was eight when I learned words like “hustle” and “whore,” when I learned that the smell of burning roses meant some of Papa’s children were “getting high,” when I learned not to touch poorly discarded syringes or “rubbers,” when I learned the basement smelled of pennies because that’s where people were taken to be “taken care of.”
Still, Papa let me go anywhere in the house, let me talk to anyone in the house. Papa and his house and everything in it were my entire world.
I was eleven when I asked Papa if I would grow up to work for him.
“Xander,” he laughed, the cigar smoke pouring from his mouth thick and acrid, but familiar, “you’re my son and this is as much your house as it is mine. You won’t work for me, but with me.”
It meant the entire world to know I belonged with Papa.
From that day on, Papa taught me, created me himself. First, he let me sit with him in business meetings: to interview women who wanted to live in his house, men who wanted to deal for him, all sorts of people who wanted to become guests allowed to use his services. Papa taught me to watch their eyes. He said it didn’t matter what came out of their mouths, but what came out of their eyes. Holding his hand, big and hot and a ring on every finger, I squeezed once if the person was acceptable, twice if not.
In the beginning, it was hard to do. Even though they were nice to me, the only people I’d known, Papa’s children, had eyes that said nothing. The new people had eyes that said everything: that they didn’t like or trust Papa, or that they wanted to use or hurt Papa. No one wanted to love Papa.
“Xander,” he laughed, fixing my necktie after I mentioned this, “I don’t need them to love me. I have you for that.”
It meant the entire world to realize I really did love Papa.
Next, I learned how to play baccarat and poker. I learned that the chips meant money but that sometimes Papa had to lose it to make sure guests came back to play and that’s when he’d win it back. Once I understood, he let me sit in the attic when he had games. Next, I learned how to scrub cocaine into my gums to make sure it was cut properly, because that cocaine went to his guests and bad cocaine meant bad business. I learned how to weigh out the cocaine for the dealers, how to calculate the amount of money that was supposed to come back. Next, I learned how to load and shoot a pistol, a rifle, a shotgun. I learned how to put on a silencer, how to aim with my whole arm. Papa said he hoped I would never need to fire a single round.
Papa said he was happy to teach me. I was happy he was happy. It was his world and mine.
I was sixteen when Papa gave me Lily. He said I had to know how to use a woman to manage the women in the house; I would be responsible for “training” all of the new ones. Lily was nineteen and new to the house. She was smart and beautiful and honest about being greedy. She didn’t like that she wouldn’t be getting paid to sleep with me. So I hit her when I was through with her. Then Papa had her sent to the basement.
She was the first and last of Papa’s women to expect money.
Soon after Lily, Papa found Lucy like he had found me.
“Xander,” he laughed, beckoning me into the room with one hand, petting the head of a girl sitting at his feet with the other, “meet Lucy.”
Lucy was fourteen and skinny and, for the most part, naked. Her hair, unnaturally red, coiled around her bony shoulders and down her arms like a living, breathing, possessive tongue of fire. Freckles peppered every bit of her I could see, made darker by the alien paleness of her skin. Her eyes were already empty and quiet, the irises brown like she cried blood not salt but she hadn’t done it in a while, hadn’t bothered to peel off the scabs.
Would I be training her?
Papa cupped one side of Lucy’s face, consuming it with his enormous palm, his hungry gold-and-diamond fingers.
“Xander,”-he wasn’t laughing-“you are never to touch Lucy.”
Lucy was the first and last thing Papa denied me. But I wanted her.
Now it was always the two of us, me and Lucy, his son and his pet, at Papa’s sides. Papa rarely dressed her; Lucy rarely looked away from me, even when she was catering to him. I could smell the caked blood in her stare, smell her freckle-spattered porcelain skin burning under her hair. She knew I wanted her.
And one night, she let me. She snuck into my bed and woke me, willowy limbs curled around me like Papa’s hand around her face, like her hair around her shoulders. Her eyes, more hollow than usual, devoured what little light lingered in my bedroom. I had to be gentle. Her skin looked like marble but bruised like fruit. Even in the near-darkness, I could see Papa’s hands on her hips, dwarfing mine. Afterward, she spoke to me for the first and last time, telling me that the hell outside of Papa’s house was more tolerable than the hell within. But Papa’s house wasn’t hell at all, I told her.
It was my entire world.
The next morning, this morning, Lucy told Papa what we did. Papa sent her to the basement.
Will I be taken there, too?
“Xander,” he laughs, but his eyes are empty, silent, and it’s the first time I’ve noticed, “that would be too merciful of me. So I’m going to let you choose: shoot me or yourself.”
He shoves a pistol in my hands. It looks huge compared to when it was in his. I can smell the ammo, like one of the bullets is slowly burning its way out.
But the barrel is cold against my temple.