Sunday, November 20, 2011

The Butterfly Killer

This is a sample from my upcoming Novel tentatively titled THE BUTTERFLY KILLER. This is my NANOWRIMO Project.
National Novel Writers Month

My name is Elliot. Gram called me Sweet Pee. P E E. I pissed the bed often. Another thing Gramp didn’t like. Said I made the house smell like amonia, except it was piss. Gram said I would grow out of it. Said my mama was a pisser until she was twelve. I was only six. Might as well get used to it.
“Only thing I gotta get used to is dying,” Gramp would say to her.
“Well I figure a butcher ought to be used to the idea of death.”
“You used to Carrie being dead?” Gram shut her mouth.“I ain’t used to nothing. Everyday is a new day and a new mystery. Everything I gut got a different soul. And that soul ain’t used to being dead. So it leaps right into something else.”
“I don’t know if hogs have souls.”
“Everything has a soul. Ever brute God made got a soul.”
“Do it hurt to die, Gramp?” I asked him
“Does it hurt,” Gram orrected me.
“I don’t know, Sweet Pee. The hogs don’t complain. It hurts to live. That’s where the pain is.”
“Is that why Mama and Daddy died, ‘cause they were hurt?”
There was silence. Just the scraping of forks against plates. Gramp took a big gulp of water. I watched the knot in his throat bob up and down as he swallowed. I once tried to swallow a jawbreaker whole so I could have a ball in my neck and it go up and down as I swallowed. All I did was turn blue and get a good whack in my back from Gram making me spit the thing clear across the floor.
“Well I wanna die so I don’t hurt,” I said.
“Hush your mouth, child,” Gram said in her high pitched church singing voice. “Hush your mouth. 

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