Cotton Candy

One: Cotton candy.









It’s early September, dusk is approaching. I have the car window down; the breeze feels good on my face, the sky is thick with clouds so full and luscious. With the sun setting the sky is gorgeous, soft and welcoming, the clouds look pink, and I have a sudden want for cotton candy.

He is speaking and I wish he wouldn’t, I need this moment alone, this moment with my thoughts, the clouds, but he doesn’t understand this. How could he? He doesn’t know me.

There is a buzzing in my ears—it’s the drugs I’m on—they are starting to kick in. What did I take again? Oh God.

He is still speaking, trying to strike up a conversation, some bull-shit about the weather. Fuck the weather, and fuck you! He’s married. He took off his ring, but you can still see the tan line from where it was. His hair is a dark brown, and his eyes are a very cold icy blue. He has an unkempt beard, and a pot belly.

“My names Duke.” He says, but I know its not. “What’s yours?”

“You know this is not necessary, I don’t need to know your name.” The annoyance I’m feeling is palpable, but I can’t control it. I need this moment to myself; it’s important. I need to clear my head, get control of my thoughts, they are sporadic and nonsensical. My mind is like a school cafeteria and right now it is lunchtime. Thoughts are getting lost in the mix of other chaotic thoughts, and I’m spinning.

“So how old are you?” The man asks. “Boy you are some sweet piece of ass; I’m gonna fuck you something awful.”

The sky is slowly getting darker; the cotton candy clouds are dissipating, and are now taking on ghoulish shapes. The air has become polluted with the repugnant stench of cow manure, and road kill.

“I’m twenty one.” I tell him. The effort put forth to speak, has almost caused me to vomit. My face and cock are on fire. The drugs are approaching fast, with the speed of an on coming car, and I’m trying to brace myself for the moment of impact.

“You alright? You look as though you’re gonna puke kid.” The man says.

I wish he would just shut the fuck up. I want the pink clouds to come back, but instead, distant memories flood my mind with acute clarity, barging their way through all the chaos of other thoughts.

And I’m gone.







I remember the first time I had cotton candy—although the remaining vestiges of my childhood are now fleeting, unreliable, and repressed. I do however remember prominent events, and moments. Moments spent living with my mother. The memories of her are blazed into my skull, my heart, my entire existence. I am branded with her mark, like a small calf, who’s only purpose for being born was to become food for the gluttonous masses.

“They’ll chew you up and spit you out.” She would tell me in the middle of the night after she got home from getting drunk, fucked, and God knows what else. Only this time there was blood. Her nose was bleeding, and as she laid her head on my pillow—getting blood on it—I could see her eyes were both black. Was she beat up, or is it her make up? Her breath was bitter, and it toyed with my gag reflexes. If she was a stranger I probably would have already peed in my pajamas, she was that frightening.

Her hair was straight from a bottle blonde, but she had not kept with it, so now her dark, graying hair was starting to show, and from the lighting in my room, the top of her head looked like an axe wound. Her lips looked as though they were melting from the smudged lipstick all over them. And to make things worse, her nose was bleeding. “You better listen good boy, this world is cruel. You need to be hard, if your gonna survive it.” She said, with a slur. “Are you listening to your mama?”

When I was younger and she would do this, I would be so afraid, afraid for her, she was my mom, and she was crying, and I didn’t understand what was happening. But later on it became tiresome, and annoying. I knew exactly what was happening. She was dumped by another man—a man who said he loved her, only to get inside her.

“Mom you’re getting blood on my pillow. Get out of here, go to bed.” I was ten years old then.

The slap she gave me after I said that only stung for a moment, I was used to them by then—the slaps. It had become the routine, the only true constant in my life. Those moments of her drunken despondency, were reliable, and somewhat comforting. At least she came back and I wasn’t left to fend for myself. She would slap me and remind me of that fact every time I said anything.

There once was a time when she would come into my room to kiss me goodnight, and tell me she loved me. But those memories are now questionable; like most of the good times. Did they really exist? It’s hard to imagine now, that I was once a happy child.

It’s strange how only the worst sticks with us. Sure you can ask anyone about the good times they have had, but they will be uncertain about a lot of the details. But ask someone to recount the tragedies in their lives and they won’t leave out a scene.

When the man—who I suppose was my father—was around, things were different. My mother wasn’t the way she is now; she was happy. We all were.

I remember going to the park, and feeding the animals that were kept behind fences—their own little habitat, in the park. Also being on the swings, getting pushed so high I thought I would fly off.

My mother was always there to pick me up after school, and we’d get what food we would need for that nights dinner from the grocery store. And she would always get me a cookie from the bakery to eat while we shopped.

Now she doesn’t even care whether I go to school or not. Or even eat for that matter.

I was six when he disappeared. My mother was not waiting for me when I was let out of school, so I had to walk home for the first time, alone. And when I got home, my mother was sitting on the kitchen floor crying. Dishes were smashed all over the floor, and the window in the kitchen door was smashed out as well.

“Mom, what happened? Are you ok?” I asked, carefully walking towards her, trying not to slip on the broken glass.

She slapped me in the face when I got to her. That was the moment everything I believed was good, and safe, vanished. In that moment I knew my life was not going to be the same, I was no longer loved. That slap—that completely unjustified action—spawned in me an awareness that a child of six years, should not be privy to. And that was you can’t trust anyone, and everyone that you love, will hurt you.

That day was the beginning of the end. I still do not know where the man who I was told was my father went to. It is amazing though how love fades. Not so much fades, but transforms into something else, something more intense, if not more potent. Hate.



The first time I got to go to the fair, is another one of those events that are emblazed in my memory. My mother couldn’t afford a babysitter, and had a date with one of the carnies that was working that night.

“How would you like to go to the fair sugar?” That’s what she called me when she was in a good mood. “You can ride the bumper cars, and eat cotton candy, would you like that?” Her smile was dubious. I didn’t really have a choice, I was to go and try to have fun—and not get kidnapped, while she was behind a circus tent getting fucked. “You’ll like Bobby, he runs the Ferris wheel; doesn’t that sound fun baby?”

Did she really believe that these men that fucked her actually wanted anything more? Yes. She truly believed that every new one was the one. Foolish slut.

The bumper cars were fun to watch. I knew before we got to the fair that I was not going to go on any rides. That required tickets. “Well if I had money for tickets, then I would have money for a babysitter now wouldn’t I?” I did however get to have cotton candy. The guy my mom went to see was eating some when we met him, and he gave me the rest of his.

“Now run along, and don’t talk to strangers.” She said. Why not? Wouldn’t it be better for both of us if someone did take me away? No, because if I was gone, then she would truly be all alone. At least I am someone to come home to, someone that needs her—despite her efforts to make me feel like a burden—she would be lost without me. At least I hoped so.

Later that night my mother took me to the ‘carnie bar.’ It’s not a real bar, but does however have a bar. It’s a place for the carnies’ to go after the fair was closed for the night, and get drunk. Also a place where bums—who after hitting the jack-pot, scoping the fair grounds for lost money—could go and get a drink and some warmth.

It was a big loft type room, with two big industrial windows. The bar was in the corner, and tables were placed haphazardly around the room. The place has now been expanded and revamped, and has been turned into a gay bar—but not for the young, hip twinks who are fashion conscious, and who hate everyone, and are strung out on crystal meth. Or for the intellectual lesbians with their dark rimmed glasses and blue hair. No it’s more for the middle aged, mediocre white trash fags, and dikes. A place where ignominy runs rampant, with leather tassels, crew-cuts and cowboy boots. Where fags, and dikes, unite to line dance.

I know this, only because my coke dealer is a bull-dike.





So being that my mother was the only woman in the place, she had captured the attention of all the men. Leaving me to sit alone at the bar drinking my seven up.

Across the bar, an old man was staring at me. He must have been sixty, give or take. He was wearing a brown sweater, and brown corduroy pants. His hair was white, and thinning on top. His face was kind and non obtrusive.

He walked over to me carrying his drink—scotch was his drink—and sat down on the barstool next to mine.

“You are far too young to be up this late young man.” He said, with sardonic authority.

“I’m here with my mom.” I say, and shoot an embarressed look towards my mother, who is straddled over some new guys lap. The old man looks in her direction as well, only with the look of disgust, not humiliation.

“Well then, how would you like another soda?” He asked, trying to sound cheerful. “You know, you look just like my grandson.” He began digging into his pocket, for his wallet. “He would be about your age now…” He stopped, and closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. From his wallet he pulled out a picture of a young boy. And he is right; we do look a lot alike. We both have curly brown hair, and hazel eyes. And we both have freckles and a dimple in our chin.

“Is he dead?” I asked, unaware of how rude I was being—I was ten. The old man placed the picture back into his wallet.

“Yes I’m afraid so, he and his mother were killed, two years ago by a drunk driver.” He picked up his drink, and stared at it a moment before taking a drink. “What’s your name son?” He asked. Loud catcalls were being yelled from across the room. My mother was now on one of the tables dancing.

“My name is Tristan.” I said.

“Tristan? What an unusual name. Well Tristan, nice to meet you, I’m Sam.” He held out his hand for me to shake. As I reached out to shake it, I was suddenly jerked from my stool, and was in my mothers’ arms.

“You trying to diddle my boy?” She yells, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “You some kind of dirty ol’ faggot child diddler?” She puts me down, and forces me to stand behind her. And I kept thinking, “Why is she so mad?”

“No ma’am I was just having a little chat, he reminds me of my grandchild.” His voice quivers, his fear is palpable, for he has now noticed some of the carnies are heading towards us. “Please, you can’t truly_.”

“Hey Bobby!” My mother yells. “This dirty old faggot tried to diddle my Tristan.”

By this time Bobby had already grabbed Sam and pulled him off his stool, and threw him to the ground. I didn’t know what was happening, he was so nice to me, why was everyone mad at him.

“Leave him alone!” I yelled. My mother just cuffed me in the head, with her hand.

My mother then kicked him in the head, while he was still on the floor. Bobby picked him up off the floor, only to send him back down, with a blow to the face with his closed fist.

“Please, don’t do this.” Sam says, with such reproach. He was then carried towards the stairway leading to the exit doors, and with great struggle he fought, but was thrown down the stairs, and was dragged out side.

“Kill the motherfucker!” My mother was yelling. I found out later in my life that she was so strung out on cocaine that night that she was not thinking straight. But that will always be just another pathetic excuse for her actions.

Sam—and I will never forget his face, for as long as I live—was covered in blood, his eyes were swollen shut; his sweater was ripped nearly off. More of the carnies started to come outside to have their chance to throw blows at the helpless old man, all the while feeling like they were doing their duty.

Eventually they stopped beating him, and forced him to leave, to walk away—like it was nothing for him to just up and go home after such a severe beating. He did however manage to stumble slowly away from sight. Sam, such a brave man.





Later that night after all the excitement died down, my mother and Bobby took me home, where I was sent to bed. I could hear them in the next room laughing and banging into things. Then the music would come on, and it would be so loud, that I knew I wouldn’t be going to sleep anytime soon.

Eventually I did fall asleep, and I’m not sure what time it was when I was awoken. But it was still dark.

I felt his breath on my face; it stunk of beer, and cigarettes.

“You wanted that old man to fuck you didn’t you?” He said, his lips now grazing my cheek; his dirty fingers pressing into my lips. He pulled the blankets off of me and turned me onto my back. It was dark and I could barely see, but I knew it was Bobby.

I was exposed now laying there only in my underwear. He began to touch my chest, pinch my nipples.

“You are a sweet piece of ass, you are. I’m gonna fuck you something awful.”

He brought his face down closer to mine, and began licking his lips, like he was trying to get something that had spilt on his chin. He then closed his mouth onto mine, forcing his tongue into my mouth, smothering me with his breath.

He then turned me over so I was again lying on my stomach, and he pulled down my underwear. “Look at me boy.” He said. I turned my head so I could see him from the corner of my eye. He stuck his middle finger in his mouth and was sucking on it. Then he pulled it out and started playing with my ass, until he forced it inside me.

It hurt, but I did not make a sound. I could feel the tears beginning to swell in my eyes, and run down my face, as he began thrusting his finger deeper inside, then out. The nausea it induced was vicious, like an insect was eating away at my insides.

He began to stroke his cock, and I was so afraid that he was going to put it in me but he never, he only stroked off, until finally he came.

“Oh ya boy, you like that?” He said out of breath, as he came all over my ass.

He then—with the finger he had in my ass—began to scoop up some of his cum, and lick it off his finger, then he started to sniff it, and moan with pleasure. “You tell your mama about this boy, or anyone and I will kill you, and your slut mother.” He said as he pulled up his pants. Then he left the room.

My mother and I never saw him again. She was upset about this, but I was relieved. For a long time after that night, my mother was different. The way she spoke to me and acted when I was around was strange, she was kind and sympathetic, which confused me. Why was she acting this way? Did she know what was done to me? Did she allow it?

She began staying in more—not to say she wanted to spend more time with me—but she did not go out much anymore. Her nose would still bleed profusely, and she would cough a lot and sometime stay in bed all day. I would have to go to school, wearing the same dirty clothes everyday. The kids would pick on me, and call me names, but the teachers would be nice, and ask a lot of questions. And I would lie. Why did I defend her? Why did I not just tell the teachers, that my mother was wasted all the time, and that she was sick? Maybe then I would be taken away to another house, and have clean clothes, and the other kids would not pick on me.

The truth —and I believe this now— is that I wanted her to die; I wanted her to be sick. And if I told anyone about her, they would save her, and I didn’t want that, because she would get better, and I would have to go back with her.

I did however not let her die, I did phone for an ambulance, when her nose would not stop bleeding, and she passed out from losing so much blood.

It was late, and I was already in bed sleeping. I heard a loud crash then the sound of glass breaking. I heard my mother in the bathroom coughing. But the coughing turned into gasping, choking like she could not breathe. I got out of bed and went to see what had happened. When I got to the bathroom and turned on the light, my mother was lying on the floor. Blood was everywhere. Her face looked as though it had been smashed in. The blood was coming from her nose, and it would not stop. She was choking on it, and gagging for air. Her eyes were rolling to the back of her head, she was a hideous sight.

I never saw her again after that night; after the paramedics took her away. Was she dead? I don’t know. I didn’t care.

I was fifteen then, and decided I could take care of myself, I was hard enough, so I ran away.

I learned quickly what it takes to survive on the streets, how to earn money.



The fair is held in late August, and the air would always smell like sweet apples and hay, mixed with the smell of horse shit, cotton candy, and popcorn. All of these smells induce a mixture of feelings in me now, feelings of mourning, and sorrow, along with curious longing. That is what the air smells like now with the window down, on this cool fall night, in this car driving to some recluse area, with this strange man. This man, who is so confidant that he is going to fuck me something awful. But I have other plans for him, the drugs have now bloomed to their fullest and I am in control.

This man who is driving beside me who says his name is Duke, has invoked in me a remembrance of an event I thought I had long since forgotten, and had repressed until it was nonexistent. This motherfucker sitting beside me now is that carnie Bobby, and he and I have a lot to discuss.







Two: Needle in the hay.











“Pull in to that driveway.” I tell him. We are now heading toward this old farm that has been abandoned. I know this because I have spent many nights there, when I was younger and homeless after I left my mother hemorrhaging to death. “How do you feel?” I ask him. I had slipped him some Ecstasy when he wasn’t looking; dropped it right into his beer; three hits.

“I feel great.” He says. “My cock is rock hard and ready to tear into your tight little ass.” I want to smash him in the fucking face with my boot, but I just smile and get out of the car. I start walking towards the barn; it is almost dark now, so I stumble on a few rocks. “Follow me.” I tell him, the fucking idiot. I need a cigarette, but I think I left them in the car. “Hey give me a smoke.” I tell him. He hands me a smoke and lights it for me. “You still a piece of shit carnie?” I ask. He doesn’t respond he is so fucked up on Ecstasy nothing I say will faze him.

“Where are we anyway, what is this place?” He asks, rubbing himself all over.

“Man I feel so fucking great, my body feels so good.”

“Listen just shut the fuck up, and get inside.” I tell him. “You’re on drugs. And a dangerous amount too for someone your age.” We are both inside the barn and I slide the big doors shut, and lock them. I have nothing to be afraid of. “Listen carnie, this is what is going on, you are in so much fucking shit right now, you better just sit over there and shut the fuck up.” His facial expression took on a slight awareness, fear even. I grab one of the lanterns from the wall and lit it.

“What the fuck are you getting on about you little faggot_”

“Faggot?” I say back, reaching down to pick up a shovel that is on the ground.

“Yeah that’s right, now come over hear and be a good little faggot and suck my dick.” He says grabbing hold of his cock. He looks shorter than I remember. I just stand there leaning on the shovel like it was a cane.

“You know, you should be a lot nicer to ‘faggots’.” I say. “They are a very cold and unforgiving bunch of people. Some, even border on insanity. Now I think you should apologize.”

“Fuck you!” He says. I then grab the shovel with both my hands and smash him in the head with it. He falls to the ground, and is unconscious.

“Not today thanks I have a headache.” I say to him, as he lies motionless on the ground. Completely apathetic to whether or not I killed him. He’s still breathing.

I don’t really have a set plan, or a goal. I just want him to pay, the prick.

He is so fucking heavy as I try to drag him across the room to a support beam to tie him up. I thought this would be a lot easier but he’s such a fat fuck.

I tied his hands so tight that, he is not going anywhere tonight. I leave the barn and go to the car to get my cigarettes, and my jacket. When I returned he was awake. He is yelling at me and swearing at me to untie him. I don’t say anything to him, but instead pull up a bucket and sit right in front of him, light a cigarette, and look at him.

“You’ve gotten fatter, since the last time I’ve seen you.” I tell him, after he calmed down.

“Who the fuck are you man?” He asks. Struggling to get free.

“Let’s just call this, karmic retribution. You’ve done some very bad things, and I’m here to punish you.” I walk over to him and kneel down so we are face to face. “Now are you going to say your sorry?” I take a big drag off my cigarette, and blow smoke into his face.

“Fuck off.” He says, and spits in my face. I look at him a moment and then wipe my face with my sleeve.

“You just don’t get it do you?” I say. “You are in no position to be acting like an ass.” I took another deep drag from my cigarette and put the rest of it out in the middle of his forehead. Inevitably he screamed out in pain. “Now, are you going to behave?”

I walk over to a pile of hay, and pull out a big hockey bag I had hid under it. Inside the bag are just a few things I will need: beer, chips, more cigarettes, a tattoo gun, some black ink, a big battery, a loaded gun, and a mirror.

“How are you feeling now?” I ask him. “Do you know what drug you are on?” I walk back over to him and sit back down on the bucket, and crack open a beer.

“Why are you doing this to me, who the fuck are you?” He is almost in tears now.

“You are on a drug called Ecstasy. Ever heard of it? I didn’t think so; it’s more of a ‘faggot’ drug.” I take a big drink of my beer. “Oh I’m sorry; you must be so thirsty by now.” I laugh.

He is soaked with sweat, although, there is a chill in the air. There is a faint smell of cows shit in the barn, but I’m used to it. As I look at him my memory takes me back to that night he molested me, the night he ruined me for life. I pour my beer all over him. “Mother fucker!” I spit. “Do you have any fucking idea what you have done to me?!” I kick the bucket across the room, and pant back and forth.

“Please whatever I did to you I’m sorry.” He cries. “Just let me go, I won’t touch you, I will just leave.” I run at him and kick him in the face.

“Shut the fuck up!” I light another cigarette. “No you are going to know what it feels like to be violated; to be defiled. Only I’m not going to be so gentle.”

I open another beer and drink it down fast. I throw the empty bottle at him, and he moves his head just in time and I miss. I walk over and stand in front of him. I unzip my pants and pull my dick out. “You remember this?” I ask. “Uh Duke?” I then start pissing on him. On his face, his clothes, I don’t care. “Are you thirsty? Drink this.” He starts coughing and gagging on the piss, yelling “stop.”

I walk to where I kicked the bucket, and picked it back up, bringing it back to where it was, sitting in front of him. I say nothing for a long time, I just stare at him. He is shaking now, and grinding his teeth—which are a side effect from taking Ecstasy.

I remember his breath, how it tasted, and smelled. I taste it even now. I remember the feeling of his hands on me, his finger inside me, and I feel sick to my stomach. I take long deep breathes. I think of Sam, the nice old man who was beaten for doing nothing but talk to me. And I think of this piece of shit, beating him, when he was the one who deserved to die.

“Do you remember the old man you beat the shit out of?” I asked him. “The man who did absolutely nothing to deserve what you did to him?” He remembers; it shows on his fucking face.

“I don’t know what you are talking about man, I swear. God, what’s happening to me?!” He cries.

“What’s happening carnie is that you are on too much drugs, and are being held here in this barn, against your will, and I’m going to be doing very, very, bad things to you.” I stand up, and walk around him; I kneel down by his ear. “Ok, how about some slut with a kid. Do you remember that?” I grab him by the hair, and start shaking his head back and forth. “Do you remember now, you mother fuckin piece of shit?!”

He starts to freak out and try to get free. His hands—even in what little light we have with the lantern—look blue.

“I didn’t do anything I fuckin swear, just let me go!” He screams.

“Don’t swear.” I say. “You should really come down, you don’t want to over exert yourself. You haven’t had anything to drink in quite awhile, well except for my piss, but you spit most of that out.

“And you being on all that X, you could do some serious damage to yourself; like give yourself Hyperthermia. Yes, your body temperature is very high, and you have done nothing to cool it down, like um, drink anything! And if your body temperature reaches ah lets say 109 degrees Fahrenheit, you could start to have organ dysfunction that may include Liver failure, kidney failure, and cerebral edema—swelling of the brain—and any one of which can cause death. Yes I have done my research. Now calm the fuck down!”

I go to my bag and pull out another beer; I open it and walk over to him. I grab his face, in my hand and start pouring some of it into his mouth. “Drink this.” I tell him. “I don’t want you dying on me before I’ve had my fun.”

I start removing his clothing, to help him cool down. Plus I need him naked for what I want to do next.

“What are you going to do to me?” He asks.

“God and to think I was actually afraid of that tiny, pathetic excuse of a dick.” I say laughing out loud.

“It’s a grower, not a shower.” He says, half chuckling to himself, realizing now that there is nothing left for him to do but just accept what is going to happen to him.

“That’s funny.” I say. I pour the rest of the beer over him, and smash him in the face with the empty bottle. I think I knocked out a tooth that time.

He is unconscious again, which is what I need, so I can do to him what I came here to do. I go back to my bag, and pull out the tattoo gun, the black ink, and the big battery. My friend is a tattoo artist, so he showed me what to do, and gave me this home made tattoo gun that runs on battery power. I bring all of this over to him, and hook up the gun to the battery. I sit back and light a cigarette.

I am contemplating on what to do next. Like I said I have no set plan in mind. Then it hits me, and I burst out into hysterical laughter. This is so perfect I say to myself.

“You were pretty hard to find, I must admit.” I say to him as I go to work with the tattoo gun. Even though he is unconscious I still want to say what I have to say. “I went to the fair every year to see if I could find you, but you were never there. Nope. I almost gave up on trying to find you. That is until I saw you, pick up some kid down by the bridge, where some of my hustler friends hang out. Yep you picked up the youngest one there, boy am I not surprised.”

I tested the tattoo gun on his leg first. Making sure it was actually going to work. It did. I picked up his shirt and ripped a piece off to wipe off his face. I need a clean spot to do my work on. “I’m actually surprised you even picked me up, me being the age I am. Mind you, I did tell my friends to stay away from you, so you really had no choice did you? It was either me or home, jerking off alone to kiddy porn uh?”

His forehead is covered in sweat, so trying to write something on it with a tattoo gun is kind of hard. “This will be a little sloppy, I’m sorry. But hey! I won’t charge you for it, this is a freebee.” I start laughing which causes my hand to shake, which causes the tattoo gun to leave an ink trail down the right side of his face. “Oops. Sorry man, I really am.”

I know what I am doing to this man is cruel, and some might even say criminal. But the truth is I don’t give a shit. He deserves this, he deserves worse than this. He is a fucking pedophile. And now everyone who looks at him will know it.

“There all done.” I put the tattoo gun down, and sit back and look at what I’ve done. It’s a little sloppy, but it is very legible. There on his forehead just above the cigarette burn, is the word in big black letters: PEDOPHILE.

I pull the mirror out of the bag, and lay it down beside him, along with the handgun. I leave him naked, but I quickly untie him and pack up all my shit and leave.

I don’t know what he is going to do when he awakens, after he sees himself in the mirror. Most likely use the gun, but I sure hope he doesn’t have the balls. I hope he tries to get help, and that people will get to see, what is written on his forehead, and know that that is what he is. But then again, he’ll probably use the gun.













The End