The Killer Net

It Always Starts Somewhere

1973...

The seven year old little boy sat on the braided rug on his living room floor. The ground-in dirt and the clumps of cat hair indicated that the rug hadn't been vacuumed in months, but the little boy didn't mind.

He didn't know any better. His bell-bottom plaid pants and wide collar shirt with the ugly floral print were just as dirty as the rug.

The screen on a beat-up, old cabinet TV with rabbit ear antennas flickered a few feet away from him. Snowy static obscured the program's picture beyond recognition. The control underneath the missing volume knob seemed to be turned all the way to maximum, but there was no sound.

The boy rammed his truck into a pile of broken toys, making a racket. He enjoyed the destruction. The boy fished an action figure with a missing arm out of the mess. He banged it on its head repeatedly. He smiled.

Two mangy cats jumped up onto a dilapidated tartan couch. One of them ripped at its tight knit upholstery with its claws. The familiar scratching sound wasn't enough to drown out another sound familiar to the little boy - the sound of the bed squeaking in the other room.

The bedroom door swung open. An unsavory looking man with an open dress shirt and full chest of hair walked out of the room buckling his pants.

The little boy's mother, half-dressed at best, appeared in the doorway as well. Her untucked blouse and crooked skirt drew attention away from the stiletto heels she wore, heels which should have been ground down by now considering how many times she'd been around the block. Dark circles under her eyes contrasted with their blue color.

She pushed a string of unkempt hair out of her face and picked through a handful of five-dollar bills. "Hey, this is only half of what we agreed on," she said accusingly to the man.

"It's all your worth," he replied.

"I gotta feed that brat," she said pointing to the little boy on the rug who sat quietly taking in the scene.

"You should've invested in birth control. Would've been cheaper."

She held out her hand. "The rest of my money..."

The man scratched his mustache and laughed at her. "What are you gonna do? Call the police?" He let out another puff of air from between his lips which indicated that neither she nor the discussion were worth any more of his time.

The man left the apartment without even a glance back. The little boy looked up from his sitting position on the floor and stared at his mother.

"Good for nothin' piece of s**t. What the hell you starin' at, boy?" she asked him.

The little boy made no verbal or physical response. In fact, from the blank look on his face, it was impossible to tell if he even heard or comprehended his mother's words.

The woman walked a few feet across the open concept kitchen/living room area and sat down at the kitchen table. She pushed a pile of old newspapers, dirty dinner plates with crusted food remnants, and empty cereal boxes out of her way until she found what she wanted.

She eyed the three-quarters empty liquor bottle greedily. The woman twisted the cap off and she took a swig from it. She plopped the bottle down noisily on the table, not even bothering to replace the cap.

She paid no attention to the little boy as he looked toward the kitchen area. His gaze fixated on a dirty butcher knife on the counter.

He rose and walked over to it. The little boy picked it up, fascinated by the way the sunlight coming through the window bounced off the metal blade. He held the knife in his hand as he walked calmly and silently toward his mother.

He stood behind her and clasped the knife in both hands.

She reached for her liquor to take another drink from the open bottle. Then she shifted in her seat to reach for a newspaper with a headline about President Nixon and Watergate that caught her eye.

The boy moved his arms in sync with his mother's movements. He aimed the butcher knife at her back.

A quiet rage festered behind his eyes as he steadied the knife handle and raised his arms over his head.

One of the filthy cats rubbed against the boy's ankle. He was too entranced to notice it.

He swung the knife and lunged at his mother!

He took a step forward and accidentally stepped on the cat's tail. The cat's piercing screech startled the little boy's mother and caused her to turn around.

The shifting movement and new position of her body sent the knife tearing into her arm rather than her back. She screamed and jumped up from the chair as the sharp blade sliced her skin.

The back of her legs knocked the chair over. Her hips banged into the table. The dirty dinner plates and her liquor bottle crashed to the floor.

The cats made a beeline for the other room and dove under the bed.

His mother stared at him in shock. She instinctively grabbed at her wound with her other hand. Blood trickled out from between her fingers and dripped to the floor.

Blood also dripped from the knife in the little boy's hand. His expression remained unchanged as he raised the knife again and made a run at her.

At the same time, the mother's previous customer burst through the apartment door without warning, unaware of the attack taking place inside the apartment. "I forgot my damn watch-" he started to say until the chaotic scene stopped him in his tracks. Then he switched to, "What the f**k?"

The distraction allowed the mother to jump out of the knife’s way at the last possible second.

The little boy ran the bloody knife into the back of a kitchen chair. It plunged through the vinyl into the cheap foam padding. He struggled to pull it back out.

"Help! Stop this crazy little s**t!" the mother screamed at the surprised man.

The boy freed the knife from the chair just as the man rushed him. The little boy swung the knife wildly.

The man's strong hand clamped the little boy's wrist. He stopped the knife in mid-air, inches from his stomach. "Nice try," the man told him.

The little boy's face contorted with anger.

His mother leaned against the kitchen counter and clutched her injured arm.

The man twisted the boy's wrist and forced the knife to clang to the floor.

His mother placed a bloody hand on the wall phone and picked up the receiver. She put her finger in the zero hole and turned the dial to call the operator to get help.

The man continued to physically restrain the little boy who screamed, kicked, and waved his arms like a trapped wild animal.

* * *

1987...

The young man looked at President Reagan's smiling portrait on the wall. He moved over a step or two and admired the frame around the college diploma awarded in social work. On the metal file cabinet below, a noisy fax machine spit out papers haphazardly.

Seated at the desk a couple feet away, a kindly looking woman on the verge of retirement shuffled folders on her desk. The logo on them was stamped DCYF which stood for Department of Children, Youth, and Families.

The young man nervously tapped the keys of an unplugged electric typewriter.

The DCYF counselor said to him cheerfully, "You have a lot going for you. Your record has been expunged. You're starting with a clean slate. I've seen lots of children come and go through this place. It's a shame that so many of them end up right back in the correctional system." She smiled hesitantly and continued, "But you'll make something out of your life. I just know I'll read about you in the newspapers someday."

He gazed out the window and shrugged. His thick head of hair didn't really move much thanks to all the hairspray.

The counselor looked down and consulted her file on him. She read his accomplishments aloud. "GPA of 4.0, track team star. Computer Science Project Winner. Criminal Studies Justice Award. So many possibilities. Which path are you going to choose?"

There was an awkward silence while the counselor looked at him expectantly.

The young man finally made eye contact with her. He smiled. "All I know is I want to make my mark on the world."