Trigger Warning: Extreme Horror: Contains Strong Sexual Content, Violence, Drug Use, and Language. by John Raptor
Authors: John Raptor
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Bunny stand in the darkness of the garage, next to each other, like circus freaks. The Oldest Woman in the World and her Man-Sized Pet Rabbit.
“I love you, Robert. I want what’s best for you. I know what’s best for you. That’s why you had to be punished. For folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far from him. Do you remember that? That’s Proverbs. You should read the Scriptures more often, Robert; it’ll protect you against the harlots. For all Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, Second Timothy 3:16. Jesus loves you, Robert. And so do I.”
I turn away from her, stare out at the golden fields…feel the wind through my hair, against my sweat and blood and shit. I realize my boxers are back on, covering my shame…I don’t remember when that happened.
My legs are caked in blood.
I swallow.
Pain still throbs in my groin, piercing and hot.
And I say, “Thanks, Gramma,” and start limping down the gravel road.
Behind me, I can hear the garage door slowly closing on its track.
I don’t look back.
…30 YEARS AGO (1979)
When I was twelve, I didn’t have too many friends because my Gramma rarely allowed us to leave the house, unless it was to go to church school, prayer meeting, or it was Sabbath. “We” were strict Last Day Adventists and considered Saturday to be the day god rested from creating the world and thus god’s holy day, much like the Jews, except “we” loved Jesus and were saved by his blood (unlike the kikes). Gramma hated lots of people: Catholics (“Babylon! Apostate! Antichrist!” she would declare), blacks, Muslims, Sunday Worhsippers (a.k.a. pretty much all Protestants), women, children, liberals, gays and dykes and trannies, but especially me and my sister.
I remember when some of the guys at church school (a brick box in the middle of nowhere; attendance: 20 students, grades 1 - 8) found a porno mag lying in the grass during recess. They were taking it all in: tits, pussy, ass. Young-boy eyes feasting upon lady-parts they had never seen before.
None of those guys liked me either. They all thought I was a faggot because I didn’t like playing sports and couldn’t catch a ball to save my balls.
I usually hung out with the girls and got a lot of shit for it.
“You hang out with those girls and you’ll grow a big fat vag,” one of them told me (I think his name was Brady).
I couldn’t identify with them (the guys). They were mean and angry and aggressive. They’d beat me up for not being as angry and mean and aggressive as they were: throw sand in my face, spit on me, kick me, hit me, squeeze my testicles…one time, one of them (don’t remember which one) tea-bagged me. When we played floor hockey during PE, it was always boys vs. girls, but the guys told me I had to play on the girl’s team because I didn’t have a wiener. The teacher agreed and made me goalie, so the guys could use my face as target practice. I often had welts on my lips, cheeks, and forehead; my shins, thighs, and arms. The teacher wouldn’t allow me to wear padding. He hated me just as much as the guys; he was one of the guys. Told me I was too quiet and if I didn’t want to get beat up, I should be more assertive.
When I told Gramma about being bullied at school, she said, “Boys and girls are neurologically different, Robbie. Girls are empathetic cunts and boys are aggressive and ambitious. You’re a boy, so toughen up. Quit being a cunt and fight back.”
“But I don’t want to be mean, Gramma.”
“Too bad. The world is mean.”
“If boys are mean, how come I’m not mean?”
“Boys aren’t mean, numb nuts. They just have a hard communication style. They believe in discipline instead of coddling. Girls are too nice. They encourage weakness.”
“But I want to be nice, Gramma. Does that mean I’m a girl?”
She slapped me
“I love you, Robert. I want what’s best for you. I know what’s best for you. That’s why you had to be punished. For folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far from him. Do you remember that? That’s Proverbs. You should read the Scriptures more often, Robert; it’ll protect you against the harlots. For all Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, Second Timothy 3:16. Jesus loves you, Robert. And so do I.”
I turn away from her, stare out at the golden fields…feel the wind through my hair, against my sweat and blood and shit. I realize my boxers are back on, covering my shame…I don’t remember when that happened.
My legs are caked in blood.
I swallow.
Pain still throbs in my groin, piercing and hot.
And I say, “Thanks, Gramma,” and start limping down the gravel road.
Behind me, I can hear the garage door slowly closing on its track.
I don’t look back.
…30 YEARS AGO (1979)
When I was twelve, I didn’t have too many friends because my Gramma rarely allowed us to leave the house, unless it was to go to church school, prayer meeting, or it was Sabbath. “We” were strict Last Day Adventists and considered Saturday to be the day god rested from creating the world and thus god’s holy day, much like the Jews, except “we” loved Jesus and were saved by his blood (unlike the kikes). Gramma hated lots of people: Catholics (“Babylon! Apostate! Antichrist!” she would declare), blacks, Muslims, Sunday Worhsippers (a.k.a. pretty much all Protestants), women, children, liberals, gays and dykes and trannies, but especially me and my sister.
I remember when some of the guys at church school (a brick box in the middle of nowhere; attendance: 20 students, grades 1 - 8) found a porno mag lying in the grass during recess. They were taking it all in: tits, pussy, ass. Young-boy eyes feasting upon lady-parts they had never seen before.
None of those guys liked me either. They all thought I was a faggot because I didn’t like playing sports and couldn’t catch a ball to save my balls.
I usually hung out with the girls and got a lot of shit for it.
“You hang out with those girls and you’ll grow a big fat vag,” one of them told me (I think his name was Brady).
I couldn’t identify with them (the guys). They were mean and angry and aggressive. They’d beat me up for not being as angry and mean and aggressive as they were: throw sand in my face, spit on me, kick me, hit me, squeeze my testicles…one time, one of them (don’t remember which one) tea-bagged me. When we played floor hockey during PE, it was always boys vs. girls, but the guys told me I had to play on the girl’s team because I didn’t have a wiener. The teacher agreed and made me goalie, so the guys could use my face as target practice. I often had welts on my lips, cheeks, and forehead; my shins, thighs, and arms. The teacher wouldn’t allow me to wear padding. He hated me just as much as the guys; he was one of the guys. Told me I was too quiet and if I didn’t want to get beat up, I should be more assertive.
When I told Gramma about being bullied at school, she said, “Boys and girls are neurologically different, Robbie. Girls are empathetic cunts and boys are aggressive and ambitious. You’re a boy, so toughen up. Quit being a cunt and fight back.”
“But I don’t want to be mean, Gramma.”
“Too bad. The world is mean.”
“If boys are mean, how come I’m not mean?”
“Boys aren’t mean, numb nuts. They just have a hard communication style. They believe in discipline instead of coddling. Girls are too nice. They encourage weakness.”
“But I want to be nice, Gramma. Does that mean I’m a girl?”
She slapped me
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