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Tough
#WritcoStoryPrompt90
Which method of discipline do you prefer, soft or tough? Create a story about the query to back up your response.
I remember the fog that morning. A hot, sticky, grey blanket of oppressive Texas moisture enveloping all in a wall so thick I could barely see the man shouting at me just mere inches from my face, his voice seemingly bellowing through all of time and space, echoing with the power of the great Metatron. Sgt. Blakemore was furious. A monster of a man, tall, black, and intense in every gesture, he stood looming over our fragile and timid souls, sweat and spit spattering us all with each word spewed out of his boiling face. Juvenile delinquents everyone of us, from all walks of life, quivering beneath the shadow of the beast we had been surrendered too, condemned to a hell brought forth from actions of our own, sentenced by parents, judges, and guardians of all types. A priest by trade, he had given over to the lord after years of blood soaked combat, leaving behind him a trail of death all around the globe in faithful servitude to his country as a Green Beret with the United States Marine Corps. A Saint of a man. As tender hearted and loving as he was homicidal and heartless. Sixteen hours a day we spent laboring away in fields and brush, cleaning miles of roads and ditches. Reparations to the community we had terrorized so ruthlessly in the carelessness of our youth. I had crossed the line. Habitually. Destined for prison or worse, I was sentenced to twenty-four weeks of a juvenile boot camp in a forgotten wilderness just outside of Lufkin, Texas. In a complex of makeshift huts and barbed-wire fence, more reminiscent of P.O.W. camps than a rehabilitation center, we exercised and worked. Exercise and work. Exercise and work.. Over and over and over again. Every single day for six months. I hated it there. I hated my life. Society, my parents, the entire system. I hated it all. Most of all I hated myself. I hated myself and all of the above for about ninety days. Ninety days of exhaustion and loathing before I finally found my way. That day I had chose violence over peaceful conflict resolution and in a blind fury I split poor Percy's head almost in two with the top rim of a full can of ice cold Dr. Pepper. Percy was bigger than me. Percy was meaner than me. I, however, had no off-switch nor conscience. I could care less about Percy's life. I could easily watch young Percy die. Unblinking. Unfeeling. I would beat Percy to death. The hand that wrapped around the back of my neck as I pounded away on bone and flesh clamped down with the weight of mountains, lifting me faster than light, sending me higher than sky. I landed in a lump, face first in the dirt, my body folding up like a decompressed accordion and was immediately snatched up and tossed once more. This time collar bone first into a tall skinny pine tree which seemed to be miles away, shattering my left clavicle. Mounted, strattled, and pinned to the ground I unleashed every curse known to man on Blakemore, a barrage of profanity laced empty threats. This was the next man I intended to kill. Empty threats indeed. I was bound, gagged and thrown into a damp and dark broom closet and forgotten about for three days, basking in my own essence and marinating in my own decay. It was there that I first found reason. It was there that Blakemore gave me the speech that forever changed my ways.
It is here that I end this story.
To be told another day.
© Doug Krell
Which method of discipline do you prefer, soft or tough? Create a story about the query to back up your response.
I remember the fog that morning. A hot, sticky, grey blanket of oppressive Texas moisture enveloping all in a wall so thick I could barely see the man shouting at me just mere inches from my face, his voice seemingly bellowing through all of time and space, echoing with the power of the great Metatron. Sgt. Blakemore was furious. A monster of a man, tall, black, and intense in every gesture, he stood looming over our fragile and timid souls, sweat and spit spattering us all with each word spewed out of his boiling face. Juvenile delinquents everyone of us, from all walks of life, quivering beneath the shadow of the beast we had been surrendered too, condemned to a hell brought forth from actions of our own, sentenced by parents, judges, and guardians of all types. A priest by trade, he had given over to the lord after years of blood soaked combat, leaving behind him a trail of death all around the globe in faithful servitude to his country as a Green Beret with the United States Marine Corps. A Saint of a man. As tender hearted and loving as he was homicidal and heartless. Sixteen hours a day we spent laboring away in fields and brush, cleaning miles of roads and ditches. Reparations to the community we had terrorized so ruthlessly in the carelessness of our youth. I had crossed the line. Habitually. Destined for prison or worse, I was sentenced to twenty-four weeks of a juvenile boot camp in a forgotten wilderness just outside of Lufkin, Texas. In a complex of makeshift huts and barbed-wire fence, more reminiscent of P.O.W. camps than a rehabilitation center, we exercised and worked. Exercise and work. Exercise and work.. Over and over and over again. Every single day for six months. I hated it there. I hated my life. Society, my parents, the entire system. I hated it all. Most of all I hated myself. I hated myself and all of the above for about ninety days. Ninety days of exhaustion and loathing before I finally found my way. That day I had chose violence over peaceful conflict resolution and in a blind fury I split poor Percy's head almost in two with the top rim of a full can of ice cold Dr. Pepper. Percy was bigger than me. Percy was meaner than me. I, however, had no off-switch nor conscience. I could care less about Percy's life. I could easily watch young Percy die. Unblinking. Unfeeling. I would beat Percy to death. The hand that wrapped around the back of my neck as I pounded away on bone and flesh clamped down with the weight of mountains, lifting me faster than light, sending me higher than sky. I landed in a lump, face first in the dirt, my body folding up like a decompressed accordion and was immediately snatched up and tossed once more. This time collar bone first into a tall skinny pine tree which seemed to be miles away, shattering my left clavicle. Mounted, strattled, and pinned to the ground I unleashed every curse known to man on Blakemore, a barrage of profanity laced empty threats. This was the next man I intended to kill. Empty threats indeed. I was bound, gagged and thrown into a damp and dark broom closet and forgotten about for three days, basking in my own essence and marinating in my own decay. It was there that I first found reason. It was there that Blakemore gave me the speech that forever changed my ways.
It is here that I end this story.
To be told another day.
© Doug Krell
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