Read Online I'M NOT DEAD: The Journals of Charles Dudley Vol.1 by Artie Cabrera - Free Book Online
Authors: Artie Cabrera
Tags: Fantasy
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my hot wife. Fuck You, for all You’ve done has drained me. Two years of doctor appointments, pain management, and greasy lawyers is what I get. My spine looks like a goddamn ratchet set. I know when we are done having this talk You will have signed my ticket to hell….Oh, wait a minute. That’s right— All bets are off, You spiteful bastard. You and I are through. I’m off the team until I get my family back.
FRIENDS, FAMILY, FIENDS, AND FOES
RICHARD (UNCLE DICK)
Sunday, January 12 th , 2014
You think my father cared if Uncle Richard made sexual advances towards my brother when no one was around in Nana’s basement?
No.
If you implied Uncle Richard was being inappropriate, you’d get two fists to the teeth and a black eye from my father for showing disrespect.
Stewart didn’t know that when Richard drank too much he liked to show us boys how much he “loved” us, but Stewart let him, because he loved Richard. I didn’t. I would’ve preferred to see Richard dead.
I hated it when Richard propped my brother on his lap whenever we went to the beach like his little meat puppet. I cringed every time he applied tanning lotion to my brother’s little round frame with that filthy gleam in his eye, beach towel firmly wrapped over his engorged swim trunks. I vowed when I grew up I’d find a way to kill Richard and shit in his casket.
Richard didn’t stop with my brother, though. His wife found him palming nine-year-old Norman Braski’s head into his unzipped crotch in their cellar after coming home from a shift at the diner one afternoon. She blew the whistle, and Richard got 10 years in the brink after being found guilty of five accounts of child endangerment. The children of Pedophile Row can sleep peacefully at night knowing my uncle’s behind bars and won’t be fucking any more kids.
I hope the boys in the big house opened you up good and wide, Richard. They love your kind in there.
WHERE THE APPLE FALLS
Tuesday, January 14 th , 2014
To say Grandpa Mumford Dudley was old is an understatement. He was so old he overstayed his welcome, and the relatives stopped responding to him when they came to visit. I found Mumford buried beneath a pile of coats the guests neglected to hang one Thanksgiving.
He was a mean senile bastard imprisoned by the oxygen apparatus he kept himself hooked up to by the radiator in the living room. He alternated between the oxygen mask and his non-filtered cigarettes while occasionally wheezing, murmuring, and letting out a series of near-fatal coughs from his green fuzzy chair.
The mucus, when freed, shot up into his throat and his nostrils and out onto his handkerchief...the same crusty cloth he used to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead and blow his nose before stuffing it into the back pocket of his dungarees.
Grandpa looked like a wrinkled Count Chocula with a case of the shingles and smelled like cigarettes, pee, and Icy Hot all the time. He would wear these goofy reading glasses that made his eyes appear frighteningly three times their size and stare at you from his chair. He would stare and stare with his wobbly head and bulging eyes.
Stewart disgusted Grandpa because of his illness. He called Stewart a moron, stupid, and all other kinds of degrading names until the day I stood up to the old bastard.
My uncle Roger called it the day my “balls dropped,” but whatever…I just grew tired of the name calling and people kicking my brother around for something he had no control over. I fought back because he couldn’t.
My father didn’t give a shit. He was guilty of doing the same—like father, like son.
“Watch your tone, boy.”
“Or what, you’ll hit me…again? What else is new?”
“You’re skating on thin ice now, son.”
I sit here on my couch with Cooper and still see that fossil shooting everyone dirty looks from across the room with those giant cataracts.
Grandpa never called my brother or me by our names.
We
FRIENDS, FAMILY, FIENDS, AND FOES
RICHARD (UNCLE DICK)
Sunday, January 12 th , 2014
You think my father cared if Uncle Richard made sexual advances towards my brother when no one was around in Nana’s basement?
No.
If you implied Uncle Richard was being inappropriate, you’d get two fists to the teeth and a black eye from my father for showing disrespect.
Stewart didn’t know that when Richard drank too much he liked to show us boys how much he “loved” us, but Stewart let him, because he loved Richard. I didn’t. I would’ve preferred to see Richard dead.
I hated it when Richard propped my brother on his lap whenever we went to the beach like his little meat puppet. I cringed every time he applied tanning lotion to my brother’s little round frame with that filthy gleam in his eye, beach towel firmly wrapped over his engorged swim trunks. I vowed when I grew up I’d find a way to kill Richard and shit in his casket.
Richard didn’t stop with my brother, though. His wife found him palming nine-year-old Norman Braski’s head into his unzipped crotch in their cellar after coming home from a shift at the diner one afternoon. She blew the whistle, and Richard got 10 years in the brink after being found guilty of five accounts of child endangerment. The children of Pedophile Row can sleep peacefully at night knowing my uncle’s behind bars and won’t be fucking any more kids.
I hope the boys in the big house opened you up good and wide, Richard. They love your kind in there.
WHERE THE APPLE FALLS
Tuesday, January 14 th , 2014
To say Grandpa Mumford Dudley was old is an understatement. He was so old he overstayed his welcome, and the relatives stopped responding to him when they came to visit. I found Mumford buried beneath a pile of coats the guests neglected to hang one Thanksgiving.
He was a mean senile bastard imprisoned by the oxygen apparatus he kept himself hooked up to by the radiator in the living room. He alternated between the oxygen mask and his non-filtered cigarettes while occasionally wheezing, murmuring, and letting out a series of near-fatal coughs from his green fuzzy chair.
The mucus, when freed, shot up into his throat and his nostrils and out onto his handkerchief...the same crusty cloth he used to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead and blow his nose before stuffing it into the back pocket of his dungarees.
Grandpa looked like a wrinkled Count Chocula with a case of the shingles and smelled like cigarettes, pee, and Icy Hot all the time. He would wear these goofy reading glasses that made his eyes appear frighteningly three times their size and stare at you from his chair. He would stare and stare with his wobbly head and bulging eyes.
Stewart disgusted Grandpa because of his illness. He called Stewart a moron, stupid, and all other kinds of degrading names until the day I stood up to the old bastard.
My uncle Roger called it the day my “balls dropped,” but whatever…I just grew tired of the name calling and people kicking my brother around for something he had no control over. I fought back because he couldn’t.
My father didn’t give a shit. He was guilty of doing the same—like father, like son.
“Watch your tone, boy.”
“Or what, you’ll hit me…again? What else is new?”
“You’re skating on thin ice now, son.”
I sit here on my couch with Cooper and still see that fossil shooting everyone dirty looks from across the room with those giant cataracts.
Grandpa never called my brother or me by our names.
We
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