The Catalyst [event #4 1.5k shoot]

"God. What a loaded gun of a question — bet there's gonna be some real fucked up answers outta this. It's the kinda question your therapist'd ask as a litmus test. Truth is, there's always been one name at the top of the list. Inked in red, bold text. Underlined. The big bad wolf. And I mean, it's easy to take the cop-out here…pretending like this ain't a thing I've played out a thousand times over the years in my own head. The conversation. The confrontation. The closure. I guess of the three, the last is what I truly need and the reality that I'll never get it leaves a void in me that's never gonna heal. I've spent years in some vain attempt to rationalize it — surfed many a couch in an office with diplomas on the wall to tell me that I shouldn't feel ashamed. I shouldn't internalize it nor should I have based an entire career and a personal definition off what happened inside that house. Easier said than done, though. When getting knocked down is all you know, getting back up becomes more than a simple act of rebellion."

Dark eyes downcast, Lex Collins sits on a stool at center stage, more perching on the edge as though he's ready to bolt at a moment's notice than really resting.

"I guess, what I want more than anything would be for that piece of shit to take a look at me now, to see where I landed. Despite those best efforts to break me down, to bury me, I made something out of those broken pieces that were left when the state intervened and pulled me outta that hospital bed at seventeen, shipped me outta state. The scars on my back, those were from that night. He fucked up, went too far. And let's be honest: I pushed him. For the first time, I was defiant. I got back up too quickly – shades of Oliver Twist. 'Thank you, can I have some more?' And he was happy to oblige. Broke my ribs. Again. Third time that year. And when he threw me up against the wall, he didn't count on the window being there. Freak accident, just the right angle at the wrong time and it gave way. Second story landing – wasn't that far of a drop but it did enough damage. I landed on the lawn and by that time, the neighbors'd heard the ruckus. Cops were called. Whole street lit up like the fourth of July, all swirling lights and I was thinking it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen right before I blacked out. I woke up in the hospital and the x-rays painted a picture they couldn't ignore, fuckin' white knights rushing in to save me from this monster. Was whisked off to Vermont. To a place that was good at mending and tending to broken things."

He sniffs, shaking his head but his eyes are dry.

"Took months for my back to heal but by then I didn't really register the pain. It was the sudden absence that was foreign an' the most fucked up part of all of this was that I missed it. They got me a membership at the Y, said maybe some extra-curriculars would give me a way to redirect that energy. I signed up for boxing. Self-defense. Karate. I learned how to strike with precision. I learned how to defend myself. I learned the best places to hit someone for maximum damage and I soaked it all up like a sponge. I started to see the circles, to be able to anticipate when that next blow was coming and avoid it – most times I didn't, though. I still wanted to take that punishment. I still…"

His voice breaks and he clears his throat, uncapping that half-full bottle of water he's had in his hand this whole time.

"For fifteen years, I believed the blood running through my veins was the same as his. The illusion of ownership and property ingrained deep and I kept telling myself that this was my fault. It had to be. My warden, he was an upstanding citizen. Liked. Respected. CLAY CLARKE was an asset to the community and I was nothing more'n a burden, a flesh-and-blood responsibility he'd been saddled with after his wife had split town. He did his best; God rest his soul."

The bitterness creeps in as he breaks off, shaking his head. One hand lifts up to rub the back of his neck, wiping away the clammy sweat there.

"Tried to run away when I was fifteen. Packed a bag, just a few things so he wouldn't notice I was gone. I hoped to get on a bus outta town. See, I found some papers in a box up in the top of the hall closet. I wasn't looking for them. I don't really remember what I was after that day. Maybe the spare gun I knew he had hidden in the house somewhere. Maybe it was just snooping, like kids do. Never expected to find adoption papers, to have that illusion of my origin story ripped away from me. Found out I was Greek. My mother's last name was Collias. No father listed. All this time, I'd been lied to. Misled. And so much of what had happened suddenly made a whole lot more sense. How much of what he did was out of spite? How much of it was because I was a stranger, some mongrel that nobody wanted and he somehow got stuck with? First reaction was flight. Get the fuck outta there. Wasn't thinking about anything else at that moment but some sick sense of self-preservation… like if he was my real father, if we were blood then every little attack and insult would have been forgivable? Would've been acceptable? Jesus."

His eyes close but he stays put, his free hand curling into a fist so tight his knuckles are white.

"There's nothing righteous or inspirational in who I'd wanna fight. It's not a way to prove I'm better… to embark on some heroic rite of passage. It's not about some noble revenge, at least not really – mean there's never gonna be a big enough pound of flesh I could take to outweigh the damage done. The scars've faded over time. I was lucky. It could've been worse – least I had someone who taught me what unconditional love could be. I have two daughters now and I couldn't imagine ever making them feel like unwanted trash. I could never lift a hand to either of them in anger. The most twisted part of all of this is that sometimes I feel like I owe him a thank you. If he'd never… I'd never have believed my lot in life was to be a human punching bag – but I'm good at it. I rose up, made something of myself. That's gotta have him rolling in his grave, knowing this trash has turned into a household name. A champ dozens of times over."

A self-deprecating chuckle slips past his lips.

"The thing I'd want most would be a fuckin' explanation. Look me in the eyes, tell me why. I know he was twisted. I know he was sick in the head – doesn't absolve him. We all got demons. For all the years I've spent trying to heal myself, for all the times I've been told it wasn't my fault, that I was a victim of abuse, I still…"

Those dark eyes are open now, staring forward with a sheen of unshed tears – who knows what he's looking at, what he's seeing in his mind's eye.

"Why? Give me a straight answer. I'd stand tall, not even flinch. I'd be honest, too. Quid pro quo, y'know? I hate you. I loathe the very thought of you and a bullet in your head was never enough. You should've been defiled. Should've been torn apart, tortured for weeks, months… fuckin' years. Should've been dragged down to Hell, screaming and begging for your miserable life to be spared. You got off easy, candle snuffed in the blink of an eye.

What would I say to him, if he was standing here right now? I'd say 'fuck you' – not even clever. I'd look him in the eye, and tell him that he's taken enough of my time and energy over the years. He's not worth it. Never was. I'd wanna hit him. I'd feel the urge creeping up, that deadly intent in my fist but then I'd turn and walk away. Let him know just how insignificant he truly is. I'd make the choice he never did: be better.

All this happened 'cause he was a catalyst. Might've started it, but that's all. My definition's my own. I filled the pages, wrote the story. This is mine and he can rot in Hell."