TW: Strong language, gore, self-depredation, TCM-related topics
This is so cringe I'm sorry
I don't remember the last time I felt competent; Worthy of anything really. Kill or be killed; Work 'till you drop, son. That's what uncle Charlie Hoyt told me. Not much I can do anymore. The meat plant closed almost four years ago and yet I still yearn for it. How I felt when I finally had a place to feel 'normal.' I felt like a freak, sure, but at least I had a purpose. Momma was happy, I was bringing in money, food; Something beneficial to the family name. Now, all I have is the basement. It's the only place that feels like my own. Everything else is either taken from me or shared with the family. I don't understand; Other families get to live peaceful lives. I don't know, what did we do? Why aren't I good enough? Momma tells me I'm good enough but I could never forget the horror painted on her face when she saw the wounds on my face years back. She was so worried, so angry with me that I would ever make her worry like that. When she first saw the masks; She always fostered my creativity but all that support decayed the moment she saw that mask. I remember his blood staining my face; It felt good. I wish it didn't, but it did. The way my sweat mixed with his blood felt like I became someone new. He was handsome, from somewhere with a purpose. Uncle Hoyt said he was reenlisting in Vietnam before he came here. I never knew too much about those things but I remember how I felt when Uncle Charlie left me. He never did come back. There was something different about him; That became especially clear that night when he killed the Sheriff. The day I got fired; The day that whore insulted my family. Maybe he was right. Maybe I am an animal. Momma tries to reassure me I'm not, but what if I am? What if that's all I'm meant to be. A dumb animal scurrying around with his dumb chainsaw-toy for food. Playing with his dolls and playing 'make-believe' just to feel special. I'm a failure, that I know for certain. But I know that if I leave; If I die then Momma and them will die too. I could never let that happen; Not when they're all I have. I need to fix things. I'll keep Momma happy, I swear I will. I'll make my uncles proud of me. I have to. I-
"Thomas! Thomas Brown Hewitt, you get up here right now!"
I hate to admit it, but I don't really like the dinners we have. I've gotten used to them; bland and unfulfilling, but it's all we have. Tonight was no different. Into the dining room where the remaining family members were seated, the "Sheriff", God I wish Uncle Charlie came back, was standing behind 'his' chair at the head of the table, leaning on his arms for support as they held the chair crest. Uncle Monty remained in his wheelchair, looking down at the table with his tired and unimpressed expression, opposite of Hoyt's deadpanned countenance. I know they're unimpressed with my disheveled appearance; I know I should be better.
"Sit down, son. Momma and I got a few things we have to discuss with you." Hoyt's voice spewed with condescending hues.
"You've done nothing wrong, hun, The Lord's just..challenging a bit extra us this month." Said Momma.
__________
Okay yay! You made it to the end again. I wrote this through Thomas' perspective as well as minor aspects of third-person. I was listening to 'Family Tree' and 'Hard Times' {Ethel Cain reference?} again and felt like yapping via Thomas. I'm open to feedback as I am on every post!
Much love, 🫀