The Killing Vision Read Online Free Page A

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subsided, but Clifton’s violence remained.  Wade and Joel were often whipped
with the belt, sometimes so hard that whelps were left on their skin for days. 
    Joel began to put on weight in his teens; he’d never
understood why, since he was active and healthy.  In any event, Clifton’s
random punishments grew more frequent, more violent.  Clifton seemed to hate
the sight of him.
    Not long after his sixteenth birthday, Joel was
heading through the house toward his room when Clifton grabbed his arm.  It had
been almost a year since he’d discovered his strange ability, and Joel had
learned to steel himself against the torrent of sensation, both physical and
mental.  Most of his encounters were the result of accidentally brushing into
someone, catching a fleeting thought like a short blast from a passing radio. 
This was different. 
    The sensations rushing through him from Clifton were
black and brutal, a wave of hatred so strong it nearly knocked Joel to the
floor.  A roar flooded his head, a mixture of screams both male and female that
morphed into one agonizing wail that was asexual and almost harmonic,
terrifying yet strangely beautiful.  Images streaked past his vision—blood and
naked limbs, Mama’s face twisted in agony.  Then, somewhere in the midst of the
seizure, a tiny spark of pain ignited and began to grow.  It loomed before him,
drowning out all his other senses, a pain so intense, so sickening that it
penetrated every fiber of his being.  And then the words exploded into his
head, Clifton’s voice yet not Clifton’s voice but the voice of the devil (YOU
FILTHY STINKIN’ PIG FUCKIN’ QUEER BASTARD SHOW YOU HOW FAT QUEERS LIKE IT) and
the pain!  The pain was excruciating.  And then he realized that Clifton was
gripping his testicles, crushing his balls in his filthy, nicotine-stained
fingers and Joel was screaming and crying but there was no one there.  Mama was
gone.  Wade was gone.  They were alone in the house.
    And then, miraculously, Clifton let go, leaving Joel
to writhe on the floor in pain, clutching his bruised testicles as wave after
wave of nausea washed over him.  He fought against the urge to vomit.  Clifton
was looming over him, his voice drawn out and slow as he said, “The next time
you play with yourself, I’ll cut the goddamn thing off.”  He stomped out of the
room, his worn leather workboots scuffing the wood floor.
    Joel did not know what to think.  It was the one
incident he had never spoken to anyone about.
    Throughout all of this time, through all of Clifton’s
violent and unexpected outbursts, Mama seemed to ignore everything.  Joel had
hugged her once after he attained his ability and saw that she was deathly
afraid of Clifton.  She was terrified of what he might do to the boys, but she
was more fearful of what he would do to her .  He had seen everything—unspeakable
acts of perversion in the solace of their bedroom, sudden eruptions of anger
and humiliation—all directed at her.  He had been simultaneously outraged and
sickened.  Though at first he couldn’t understand why their mother refused to
take up for them, he finally understood.  It was all there in her head.  She
was afraid he would kill her, knew he would kill her if she dared take a
stand against him. 
    He had wondered countless times how different things
would have been had their real father not died, if Clifton had never shown up
to tear their lives to shreds.  But it was pointless to think about that.  The
past was the past, and there was nothing about it that could be changed.
    Now, as the lightning flashed and the thunder grew
distant, Joel lit a cigarette and let it smolder in the blackness, dangling
from his fingers, his feet drawn up in the chair.  He was not surprised that
his cheeks were wet with tears.  He rarely thought of Clifton without crying. 
    He sucked on the cigarette and stared at the
blackness outside the windows.  The rain had stopped, but the