From the moment James Williams emerged from his mother’s womb, slick with blood and desperation, everyone knew there was something wrong with him. His mother’s hair laid in clumps on the floor, her scalp raw and exposed from his unforgiving grasp. As he got older, his fists grew in unison with his rage. The violent waltz between James and his parents left holes in the sturdy castle walls that could not be fixed. When they tried to feed him his morning porridge, the walls ended up splattered in lumpy mush. His appetite begged for juicy, expensive meats, like an insatiable wolf. By the time he turned ten, he had seen just shy of seven different physicians who all told his mother the same thing, “You shouldn’t worry about a thing, Mrs. Williams. All young boys go through a period of aggression. Plus, there’s nothing wrong with getting plenty of iron!” But Mrs. Williams’ vivid dreams of carnage and massacre left her restless each night. On a late May afternoon, James went outside to play in the garden. His mother could not ignore the ache in her stomach and the thumping inside her chest. She sat at the kitchen table with the taste of metal bombarding her dry tongue. The chamomile tea beside her grew cold before she finally went outside. Smoky skies replaced the spring sun, robbing the courtyard of its usual lively spirit. As she walked the marathon toward the garden, her feet heavy with unease, tiny drizzles cascaded onto her cheeks from above. She turned the massive tree just before the garden and was greeted with the sweet symphony of her boy’s laughter. Two white rabbits munched quietly by his feet while he fed them bunches of basil. The sinking in her belly shape shifted into flutters of adoration. Mrs. Williams started her way back to the castle when two ear-splitting cracks resonated from the garden. She sprinted back toward the gate, the sinister snickers of her precious angel engulfing her eardrums. With his back facing her, James stood proudly, his hands dripping with crimson and ivory. Mrs. Williams never found their heads.
This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Kutztown chapter.