WARNING: The following contains graphic language. Reader discretion is advised.
History Without Memory
“Shut up!” barked Kenny as his several cockatiels that were chirping, whistling or banging their heads against the cage in an unbearable fashion. The large cage nearly took up an entire wall, near the front windows of his double wide trailer. It’s amazing he hasn’t killed those birds yet. I’ve lived here for six years and I still couldn’t stand them. Kenny sprayed them all with a red water bottle. “Damn birds,” he muttered.
We headed down the small hallway, with him reminding me to call Tom and the other leaders to say I chose the Alliance, keep Catherine a huge secret, blah blah blah. I turned to him when we stopped at his door at the end of the hall. He looked back at me with those cold Indian eyes. “Don’t act like you know everything, Shane,”
“I don’t have to act,” I grinned.
My eyes shifted from my imposing friend to his open door. Elizabeth laid in Kenny’s bed on her side, in a black leather corset with red lace causing every curve in her body to enlarge. With lust and hunger written in her green eyes, she was a maiden awaiting her knight. Kenny turned back to me with a sly grin. “I’ll be out in a few hours,”
I nodded to him and headed back down the hallway to the open living room, as I heard the door close behind me. Lying on the couch, my eyes were shifted up to the ceiling, my subconscious transmitting messages to me in the ceiling.
The birds started to act up again but I just sprayed them with the same water bottle calmly. If I put a blanket over their cage they’d fall asleep, I’m sure of it.
“Hey Dusty,” I welcomed Kenny’s Rottweiler puppy. He really wasn’t a puppy anymore, but he surely wasn’t done growing! He was still in the playful puppy stage. I got onto the floor to rough house with. I playfully tackled him and Dusty wiggled out. He started to get excited and jump back and forth, giving playful barks. He gently shoved him and he ran back to me and I shoved him again. He was getting faster each time. I faked a jump to him and he crouched down and ran behind me, unable to stop himself from hitting a wall. I chuckled as he looked at the wall confused and growled at it.
I just laid back down on the couch when Dusty went to wherever he goes, maybe the bathtub; he likes it there for some strange reason. I sighed, as the only thing to break the silence was Elizabeth’s erotic moans or the birds’ annoying chirping. So, to drown them both out I took my headphones from the table and pressed play. After a few seconds of delayed silence, Skrewdriver flowed into my ears. I closed my eyes and in my mind I could see the late great Ian Stuart play on stage singing. My mind started to skip to different thoughts and memories with each different lyrical line.
I remember when I was eight years old. My blonde hair was not so dirty yet, my eyes had more color. I was just a small version of my father. A great man he truly was. He was a construction worker by day, a Nationalist leader by night. I was proud of him, even at that young age I knew he was doing something remarkable and important. He always had a buzzed cut and strong blue eyes, a trimmed beard and mustache to complete his blue-collar look. His arms, chest and back riddled with design of tattoos that claimed his past. From the naked woman on his shoulder that was his dream woman, to the grim reaper on his back reminding him that death was always behind you. I had a lot of joyful memories of him.
One memory is when he taught me hand to hand combat against any enemy. We were in the backyard, with a wood private fence surrounding our green and freshly cut yard.
“Shane, this is important. Niggers always either carry guns or travel in packs like the dogs they are. Now if you’re able to fight one of those niglets in your school, don’t use physicality so quick. Use your mind to mess with their head. Because they are young, they aren’t as dangerous as the ones you will have to fight later. Understand?” my father asked, in his rough voice. He was skilled in the martial arts as well. What a father, a great provider to his family, an honorable man to his race and a skilled defender of both. He was in a stance that gave him the opportunity to strike at an unwittingly attacker. I knew better.
Before I answered, I quickly grabbed his wrist, used my leg to trip him, as I used his weight and gravity to take him down and placed a hand over his throat. “I understand, dad”
A smile formed on my father’s face, “You’ve been practicing. I’m impressed. But son, don’t use moves you can’t out do,”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, getting cocky. Next thing I knew he was on me with a lock that I learned to be called the Sinking Python, I tried to tap out but I couldn’t move. My eyes widen as I felt the pressure against my bones. Luckily, he let me go after mere seconds. I got up to stretch, making sure my bones weren’t broken. I took a few deep breathes to get “Never trust a nigger, Shane. Wetbacks too. Those are the ones that will stab you and take your job,”
I held back a laugh. I knew he was serious. “Dad, can I ask you an important question?”
“Of course. What’s on your mind?”
“Why do we hate all niggers and wetbacks? Aren’t there some nice ones?”
My father looked at me. For the first time, as I looked into his eyes I saw a blank, he didn’t have an honest answer. A few moments went by where the only noise was the movement of the wind against the trees.
He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Son, a good nigger is like finding a friendly snapping turtle. Even if there is one, I wouldn’t trust it long enough to say good morning to it,”
Maybe hate is taught. Maybe hate is inherited. As for my family, hate was a tradition. I don’t know where it came from, or how, but in reality, racism is everywhere. It’s just my family was vocal about it, and more upfront. I never questioned my father again. Maybe I wanted him to be the smartest person I knew, the one I could always go to for help, so I never tried to start downward spiral of doubt. Maybe it was blind obedience. One day I tried to go against my own fears by making a black friend in 7th grade.
My father drowned while saving me when the fucking nigger and his brothers convinced me to go swimming with them at a river. Two weeks they searched for his body. At the funeral they had to have a closed casket because the morticians couldn’t even scrape off the stench of death, or replace the flesh that the animals picked from his carcass. To everyone the smell that lingered was death. To me, it was shame. Because I went swimming with those dangerous people, my father had to save me. He died saving me; the current was too strong even for him. The cowards ran off when they saw my father’s body drift away from me as I was too shaken to scream for help.
I sat crying on that riverbank, paralyzed from fear until night, when my sister came to get me. They killed my father!
It was after the funeral did I begin living with Kenny. Shortly after my mother tried to kill herself, she blamed herself for the death of my father, when it was my fault. She’s been locked up in the insane asylum since. They took my father, they took my mother. They took my family!
I shot up, eyes nearly out of my skull. I can feel beads of sweat roll down my face, a puddle of sweat behind me on the couch. I breathed heavy and looked around. Kenny was standing there with no shirt, just in his shorts. Elizabeth was behind him with a sheet wrapped around her like a towel after a shower, her wavy Auburn hair pulled back as she held a metallic dagger with a dragon on it. Kenny had a pocket knife in each hand, his eyes wide with anticipation.
“Where?” Kenny barked
I looked at him confused. “Where what?”
Kenny grunted and looked at Elizabeth. “Damn, nothing. False alarm. Sorry babe,”
“You bastard!” snapped Elizabeth and she kicked me on my shin. A sharp pain shot through my body as I rolled face first into the sweaty couch, a scream escaped from my lips. Kenny put his knives away with a grunt. “It was probably just a memory of when he was younger,” he muttered.
“You owe me, babe. I should cut his throat out so he won’t scream again,” snickered Elizabeth as they walked back down the hall, whispering perverse romances. I heard the door shut again. I went into the kitchen, shaking my leg to keep the circulation going. I’d call her a bitch but she’d like it too much.
I sat back down on the couch with a Bud Light in my hand. I took a breath after popping the top off, smelling the scent and then took a swig. My father led a clean, straight edge life, but I picked up drinking at 15 when I lost a bet and had to chug a pint of whiskey. I really didn’t make it far, but I still liked it. I laid the bottle down and placed the headphones back over my ears. I had to keep it at full volume. Elizabeth was a Banshee back there.
I was 15 when I also met Catherine. Drinking leads to betraying your race. That’s a good theory I should look into. She was extraordinarily beautiful, and we all thought she was white. Wavy black hair, heavenly blue eyes (found out it was contacts) and a slender body with curves that would drive Elton John crazy. I met her when the teacher was pairing us up for some stupid class assignment. Some kind of skill building bullshit they put us through since elementary. I knew the school system was filled with left-wing loonies and that proved it. I pointed that out to Catherine and she giggled. Her white teeth made her face glow. She had a faded tan, which gave a hint she wasn’t pure white, but those enticing eyes had me in a trance, so I never asked. “If you could be any animal, what would you be and why?” Catherine read from the paper. She had that exotic accent hidden with a teasing undertone.
I leaned back as if really thinking, “A bird,”
She smirked, as if knowing the answer. “So you can fly?”
“So my shit can be white,”
She started to giggle into her hand, but the edge of her smile still melted through. She began to write it down, turning pink. “You know, it’s weird. All my friends say that you’re a huge bigot and an asshole. But you been nice to me,” she whispered.
I couldn’t help but smile. She was so innocent I couldn’t have just blast her with my true being. To show her my lifestyle, I had to gain her trust. “Sometimes everyone doesn’t know the truth. It’s how the Zogs stay in power,”
I can’t remember anything else that happened. More and more we saw each other outside the classroom, from every other week to every other day, and the more I thought of her. Even when Kenny and I taught new recruits at the Grind, our local training gym, I thought of her. In fact me thinking of her almost got me kicked out of The Alliance, even before I was in it.
I failed to block a left hook by one of the new teenage recruits, and I fell to the floor, clenching my jaw. I shook it off and stood up and extended my hand, to congratulate the young guy. That was until a heavy medicine ball knocked me down. I heard an arrogant voice that could only belong to a rich pretty boy. I got up again to see a small group laughing at me.
“Remember kids. If you hang out with trailer trash, you’ll be weak and poor like Shane” laughed Alexander Hamill, the richest person at the Grind. He tossed his natural beach boy blonde hair back to show little beads of sweat glistening on his flawless tan face. The beads of sweat dropped down his strong chin onto the damp white wife beater Alexander had on. The bright blue eyes peered straight through me. The Grind wasn’t that big of a place, it was next to a body shop, so seeing that he wanted to fight couldn’t be that far of a stretch. “Unlike me, who breathe, sleep and
sweat for our race. I am a strong white warrior,”
“Alex, you are nothing more than a rich punk who is only here because of daddy’s check. You never shed blood for this race as I have. You never bleed unless you’re on the rag,” I called back. Alexander looked behind him at his entourage, surprised that I would challenge him. “It’s Alexander to you! You dare to challenge a superior?”
I stepped closer, to close the gap between us, “I’m standing right here. Or is it the fact I’m up again that you get scared like a little kike?”
“You better fight him, Alexander!” urged one of his little cronies. They shoved him towards me, and I didn’t even lift my hands.
“You got the first shot,” I said, cocking a grin.
“I agree,” I kept grinning.
Blinded by rage, he took a swing at me. I shook it off, as I barely felt anything. I shrugged and swung at him, and he went down hard, holding his face and yelling in agony. I knelt down.
“Remember, I’m more of a warrior then you will ever be,”
Two months later Catherine and I started dating, secretly of course. I was supposed to be the big bad white warrior, and now I was dating a mixed girl. How a Mongrel had that effect on me I do not know. It’s a history without memory. Or was it love?
Recently, Elizabeth was the first one to know the truth about Catherine. Before anyone else, even me. The way I found out, I wish I didn’t. I walked into Kenny’s room to be welcomed by a straight punch to my face, knocking me back to the wall; I looked up in time to watch Kenny strike me with his knees. He was so lean it was almost impossible to fend him off. I mustered a punch to his chest, which made the onslaught stop for a second. I caught my breath and had my eyes became clear and next thing I knew I wasn’t able to breathe. Kenny was behind me and applied his favorite choke- the rear naked choke! I started to fade in and out. The way Kenny had locked it in, not even slamming him against the wall could loosen him up. Wasn’t much of a fight between us. I awoke with him holding a Bud Light over me.
“You’ll live,” he informed. “Oh by the way, Catherine is a Mongrel,”
I looked at him confused as I lifted myself up, taking the Bud Light. “No man, she’s white,”
Kenny shook his head, “Elizabeth called and told me. That’s why I choked ya out,”
“I thought it was because you felt like it,”