The youngest sister knows who I am. She knows me more than I know myself. I’ve always figured that my parents are demons, and there were reasons they didn’t kill me, like they did my brothers and sisters. I’ve figured out that I’m not God. I do tricks, and maybe I’m supernatural, not a natural boy, but I always separated myself from my parents. This Mary, the youngest sister, of a threesome of whore girls, thinks in her mind that I am the ‘ONE AND ONLY DEVIL’. I loved my brothers and sisters — even after they were dead. How could I be the real, one and only Devil, if I loved my siblings? The Devil, as a human should love only himself. I have lots of tender feelings, I brought my mother and father back to life, after they were burned to a crisp, by me. I do nice things like raise the dead. Maybe it’s done to glorify me –selfish, selfish; but if I don’t lift myself up who will? I don’t intend to die on a cross.
The youngest sister is a holy whore. The bitch loves too much, she will love anyone. She spreads her legs for whole school teams. Mostly I can’t read thoughts, except with her. She is the only kid I’ve met that is supernatural like me (but in a vastly different way). Sometimes I see a fucking halo around her head. I can’t read thoughts except with her. She is so scared of me that when I’m just in the same room with her, it makes her sweat, when I’m near her she can’t think of anything else but me. She thinks that if I screwed her maybe I wouldn’t kill her. She seems to think I could kill her, but I’m not so sure. I’m good at reading faces, and gestures, and I can make things happen when I’m present. I can’t open jail cells, and let a bunch of prisoners out. I’ve tried to do that and it’s no go, but I can will doors in front of me to open. I’m only 13 and my powers are growing, especially my sexual powers. I am really good with girls.
My ‘stupid period’ was when I burned my demon parents up, and had to go into foster care and orphanages, I tended to reveal too much to strangers. Other foster children are mostly rat finks and tell everything they see. I was continually told on about my best trick, which was starting fire in my hand, and not burning myself. The counselors and house parents figured I had to have matches, and was probably smoking. They were always patting me down, or reaching in my pockets to search me. There are no civil rights when you’re a kid under ten. Mostly I was sent to doctors of the head variety. I even showed one doctor, a big guy (they’re all big when your age nine) but this doctor was 6’4 inches, or so. He was in his book-lined office reading a report about me, when his nurse brought me in, and pointed out my chair.
The big doctor read, ‘Roscoe claims he can start fires in his hand without the use of matches,’ I use various names, to confuse my caretakers. Roscoe was my little kid name, Don my teen name, and Lucus my grown name.
“You can’t do that can you son?”
We were sitting across from each other in easy chairs. He had a soft big one and I had a soft little one.
“It also says they saw me do it, I imagine.” I said.
“Yes, it said, ‘It seemed like a steady flame came out of the palm of his hand for about three minutes.
When several of us examined the hand afterwards it appeared unburned.’ That’s what is written here, but you and I know it was a trick. I think you’re a kid whose very good a magic. You can’t make fire appear in your hand because no one can. It’s not humanly possible. Tell me how you fooled those people a the foster home.”
“I’m not like other people, that’s the trick.”
“Your very smart Roscoe. The report is full of that, but tell me how you start fires. There is a logical reason. Being smart doesn’t start fires, and your not God.”
The doctor had a funny way of touching his nose when he was nervous and I made him sort of shiver.
“It’s a trick that I do in my mind. I don’t need matches.” That was the God’s truth I told him, but I knew he wouldn’t believe me, and he didn’t.
“Let me see it,” he said, standing up by his chair. He was a doctor, but a scary man, so very big.
So I held out my hand, and produced a steady flame in my palm. He jumped over toward me, and I stood up, I didn’t want to be trapped in my chair. He had this not so smiling smile where I saw his teeth. I don’t like getting really close to me, especially big monster types of males, and he hovered over me, I backed up a little to the side holding my flame. I made it go from red to blue. When I changed the flames color he just put his hand over my hand over my flame. I burned him, not a little tiny burn, but a cooked hand burn. You put your hand in a flame and you will likely be burned. He screamed like a mean kid once screamed on an orphanage outing when I pushed him off a path on a some rocks. He had hit me a week before. Well this doctor screamed like that little boy, the boy had only broken his arm, I cooked the doctor’s hand.
“You burned me you, you, you bad, bad boy!” He screamed at me in a sort of girls voice, he was not the marine sort he looked like with his burned voice. “You MEANT to burn me!” He screeched and picked me up by the armpits and shook me. I don’t like hostile adults grabbing me, so I gave him a bad shock.
“Didn’t you think it was real fire?” I asked him in my innocent voice. I let my hand fire go out. He put me down after the first shock, but when I spoke to him he went into a fury and jerked me up again. I guess the shock was mild on a big guy like him. I think he was still looking for wires connected to my armpits, the other adults had done that. But he picked me up off the floor. He was holding me under my arms and he shook me, hard, like maybe my fire machine might fall out. Also he was mad as hell. He shook me like he was going to hurt me, so I gave him a shock like I never had whacked anyone with before, he fell, dropping me. I hit the arm of my chair, he hit the floor, and his head hit the desk.
I screamed and my fall on the chair hurt my leg. He fell on the floor and was moaning. I could fix my leg, but I left it injured and dragged it walking out of his office, down a hall where the social worker, who drove me there in the institution van was waiting. She was chatting with the secretary/nurse.
“So what happened to you?” the black-haired young social worker asked me.
“The doctor picked me up and shook me, and then dropped me on a chair arm. He hurt my leg, then he fell to the floor.”
“Oh my God!” the doctor’s secretary said. She ran to the back room office, and after her went the social worker who was in charge of me.
An ambulance came and carried the doctor away on a stretcher. While the two women were out of the room I went through the secretary’s desk and found a stash of all day suckers. They were strawberry. I filled my pockets with those, and then looked in her pocketbook. She had $180. It was in mostly fives and tens. I left $20 in small bills, so she would think she spent the other, and forgot where. I put my profit in my shoes. A boy never knows when he might need extra cash.
Two car loads of social workers arrived in about an hour and had me tell my story, about being picked up and dropped. About the doctor dropping me. I created big horrible looking bruises on my ass, and legs. They took my pants and underpants off, and took pictures of me. I was then taken to the hospital, and this midget of a doctor in the emergency room (he was my size), came out to talk to my social worker. He took more photos of my naked self. Then I had to tell the ‘doctor story’ again and my evil doctor got bad, and then worse with every telling. I limped around and they took pictures of my bones to see if anything was broken.
The social worker talked to the Mickey Mouse doctor by herself and announced to me that, “Nothing is broken and you can go home now.” Well that was not my home, by a long shot, but on the trip back I gave her one of my stolen suckers and said, “I got it from the short doctor.” Actually I begged him for a coke, when we were waiting for the X-rays, but he wouldn’t get me one, so I gave him a jock itch and the worker got some salve and pain pills for me. He was the one who would need those exact things because I cured my bruises and limp by the time I got in the car. He would just about have scratched his balls off by then. The itch was one of my favorite things.
To contact the author his e-mail address is: 1-352-236-4406 My fax number is 1-352-629-1573
Other stories in this series of Roscoe, Don and Lucus are:
http://amosani.wordpress.com http://jackstricks.wordpress.com http://jesusgack.wordpress.com http://devilsanddemons.wordpress.com
Another story called ‘Teeth’ is at http://unsightlyteeth.wordpress.com There are also links to many other stories at the end of ‘Teeth’.
