In Laymon's Terms

Robin started having headaches from all the hitting, but he didn’t tell anybody. What good would it do? The kids at school could sense that Robin was a loser, and they started picking on him. Kids can be cruel. Robin was not strong, and there was one boy in particular who liked to torment him. His name was Grumman. He was a year older than Robin and a lot bigger. He would catch Robin on the way home from school and twist his arm, or pinch him, or hit him hard in the belly. Once he burned him with the end of a cigarette. Robin’s headaches got worse.

He never even thought about telling anybody. It was bad enough to be known as a sissy, but to be a snitch would be even worse. So he took it from Grumman and the other kids. He took it for a long time, but finally he had enough. On his twelfth birthday he took a long-bladed screwdriver from a kitchen drawer. He carried it outside and rubbed the flat of the blade against the concrete driveway for hours until it was dagger-sharp. Now he was ready.

The three boys leaned expectantly toward the campfire.

The next day Robin walked home from school more slowly than usual, making it easy for Grumman to overtake him.

“Where we goin’, pussy? Home to momma and her greaser boyfriend? Do you watch him fuck her? How about I come along and we both watch?”

“Leave me alone, Grumman.”

“That’s not nice. Here I’m trying to be a buddy and you get all shitty with me.” He snaked a hand out and seized Robin’s left wrist. “Ever see this one?” With his other hand Grumman clamped on Robin’s knuckles and began bending the palm inward. “It’s judo.”

“Hey, that hurts.”

Grumman snickered. “No shit.”

While the other boy kept the pressure on his left wrist Robin slipped his free hand inside his jacket and grasped the wooden handle of the screwdriver.

Grumman’s grin widened. “Whaddaya got there, pussy?”

“A present for you.” With a backhanded sweep, Robin drove the sharpened blade of the screwdriver into the other boy’s ear. There was a muffled popping sound. Grumman gave a strange high-pitched squeak. His grip on Robin’s hand relaxed. He staggered a few steps and fell heavily as a thin red stream squirted from his ear. His face smacked the sidewalk and he quivered for several seconds and then moved no more.

Robin had no idea it was so easy to kill. Nor so much fun.

He pulled the blade out of Grumman’s brain with a sound like a spoon coming out of Jell-O. He wiped it clean on the dead boy’s T-shirt, and threw it down a storm drain.

The violent death of the bully was the talk of the school for many days. Everybody had a theory about what happened, but nobody connected it to quiet little Robin.

But things at home did not improve. Kurt continued to punch him around. And Barbara was no longer pretty. She was drinking a lot now and all puffy in the face. She lost her job. Kurt was on her case and Robin’s all the time. The boy knew what he had to do.

He was a little sorry about his mother. But all in all it would be for the best. She was sick or crying now when she wasn’t dead drunk, and not much good to anybody. One morning when she was passed out on the couch Robin did not go to school. He took a heavy chef’s knife from a kitchen drawer and walked back to the couch. Barbara’s face was all blotchy from drink and Kurt’s fists. Her mouth hung open. She smelled stale. Robin closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the way she had been. He tucked the mental picture away, then ripped the knife blade across his mother’s throat. Barbara’s eyes popped open for just a moment, then glazed. She gurgled as she died. There was a lot of blood spilling out of her. Robin wondered what it tasted like. He touched a forefinger to the open flap of her neck and brought the reddened tip to his tongue. It tasted salty and kind of coppery, like an old penny. Robin carried the knife into the living room then and sat down in front of the television. He turned the set on and found a channel with cartoons.

Kurt came home in the middle of Scooby Doo. He was in his usual crappy mood.

“Barbara!” he called. “Where the hell are you, woman? Is the kid here?”

Robin stood up and, gripping the handle of the heavy knife, walked out to the hallway where Kurt was doing the yelling.

“I’m here.”

“What the hell are you doing watching TV this time of day? Why aren’t you in school?”

Robin moved up close to his stepfather. “Goodbye, asshole.”

Kurt’s mouth dropped open. Before he could speak, Robin drove the knife handle-deep into the lower part of his stomach. He yanked the blade upward, slicing through flesh and fat and muscle until it scraped the breastbone. Kurt grunted and grabbed at the wound, trying to keep his intestines from spilling out. He dropped heavily to his knees. Blood bubbled from his mouth and he pitched face down on the tile floor.

Robin went back to the television set where he watched the rest of Scooby Doo. That was where they found him.