Why they call me butcher ?

Don’t tell anyone….

……………………………………….

Everytime I finish a project for Owen, I would take time off to reflect on what I have done.

I enjoy taking a life.

The euphoria of seeing the look on my target’s face when they realised what was happening is priceless. They way they look at me, with their eyes wide open, burning an image of me into their head before they black out.

I’m sick. I know that.

What made it worse was I enjoyed knowing that I’m sick.

I was teased often when I was young.

Barry the fatty. That’s what they call me in school.

Being tall and fat makes me the subject of ridicule from the first day I stepped into primary school until the day I enlisted in the army.

I can’t help it, it’s genetics.

My grandparents and my parents are all fat. I could see it in the family photos.

Not only fat, their sizes are huge too.

Big hands, big feet, it runs in the family.

When I was enlisted, I was put together with all the overweight chaps.

I did what we were told in the army, going through the motion.

I lost weight and I gained muscles.

It seemed a regimental lifestyle is perfect for me.

I started to enjoy working out.

As I lost weight, I got more confident. I opened up a lot more, and I even advised my parents to eat healthier.

An advice they ignored.

I thought time was on my side. That I could slowly change their high fat and high sugar diet by showing them that if I could do it, so could they.

I never expect them to die of heart attack within hours of each other just 3 months before I finished my military training.

I was devasted.

It broke me.

They were having lunch when my dad apparently suffered a stroke.

En route to the hospital, he passed on.

My mum was so distraught that she fainted at the morgue. Before I could reach the hospital, my mum suffered a heart attack.

I remembered crying in the morgue as I held both their hands. Their bodies so cold and rigid.

Initially I thought I was overwhelmed by sadness but I was wrong.

I was consumed by anger.

Angry that I could not save my parents.

I should have tried harder to get them to eat healthy.

The wake, the cremation, everything passed in a blur.

When I went back to camp 2 weeks later, I was taken off active duty. I’m sure my superiors did not want me touching a weapon given the state I was in.

Especially not after I uprooted a 2m tall tree with my bare hands. I love the flora and fauna just to set the record straight. My section mates and I were told to clear out some shrubs and overgrown weeds for training purposes.

I was hacking away at the shrubs when I was so consumed by anger that I took it out on the tree.

I remembered shouting at the top of my lungs and I started hammering and kicking the tree before pulling it out of the ground, stem, roots and all. By the time I calmed down, my sections mate had given me a 5m radius and were all staring at me as I cried under the afternoon sun.

Well, the camp sent someone to talk to me. You know, the usual.

Someone who they say can help me overcome this difficult phase.

A therapist or some counsellor.

I don’t care.

I know it’s just a matter of going through the motion.

I walked into the room and sat down opposite the man who was fiddling with his pen and looking down on his file.

Barry : Let’s get this over and done with Sir…. Or how you want me to address you ?

The man smiled and extended his hand.

Owen : Call me Owen…

…………………………………
5900 words

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