I killed Cory. Deader than disco. It was a Thursday like any other Thursday in the spring of 1978 and I was sitting informally on my desk, legs dangling, talking with my kids before beginning my afternoon science lesson.
It was just after lunch time and they were finally done filtering back in from their afternoon repast; or so I thought. I was deeply engrossed in conversation with the kids concerning the latest episode of Welcome Back Kotter and Vinnie Barbarino in particular when.....
ARRGGHHHHMOOOHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
Small hands grabbed my shoulders as a very scary monster scream demanded the undivided attention of my eardrums. Instinctively, I made a fist and swung my elbow back connecting squarely with what turned out to be a little eleven year old pigeon chest. The impact made a muffled cracking sound and I immediately turned around, eyes wide open, to see Cory; ashen faced and struggling to breathe.
"Oh my god! Why did you do that?!?! Are you okay?!?!?"
But he wasn't.
Poor Cory. The little kid who was admittedly a handful. What with bringing his blue blankie to school, pushing his desk into the corner and adorning it with a desk placard proudly self-proclaiming himself as, "Master Jedi", one couldn't possibly confuse Cory with a model student.
And don't get me started with his never ending pranks the worst of which was the infamouspurple nurple war he single-handedly waged against all the boys in class ultimately resulting in Marvin Cheddy's left nipple having to be surgically reattached.
Yes, Poor Cory fancied himself a clown but the worst part of it was that he was genuinely funny. The running commentary from his corner desk, while undeniably rude, was however far more enjoyable than Carson's monologue on any given night.
But now... Well, he had gone too far, though I suppose you never know how far you can go until you've actually gone too far...
After the paramedics took him away the students in my class told me that he had soundlessly let himself into the class and given everyone the shush sign.
He had tiptoed right up behind me and grabbed my shoulders while simultaneously emitting a surprisingly impressive scary monster scream that had worked as intended.
The only problem was that Cory had a congenital heart defect and asthma to boot. And truth be told, I had grown up with four brothers as the only girl so it would not be untrue to say I had developed a non-negligible degree of roughhousing reflexes.
Poor Cory never got his breath back and quickly turned bluer than heartbreak. The teacher next door attempted CPR but had about as much luck as a hooker in church. Cory arrived at Presbyterian Hospital DOA.
Because all the kids saw what happened and moreso, because it was the 1970s, the DA's office elected not to seek an indictment. I'm not saying they gave me a commendation and I'm not saying his parents didn't sue the Board Of Ed but at least I didn't end up with the other broads on Cell Block H.
I would say Cory's parents were understanding but that would be a lie. They were ex-hippie burnouts who neglected poor little Cory. The only time I ever saw his mother was when she needed me to sign some documents for Welfare and poor Cory was too ashamed to bring them into class himself.
I knew Cory was always embarrassed about his parents and I felt so bad for him. That was no way to grow up, with such misery; just awful.
I've thought about Cory throughout the years and wondered what he might have become if I hadn't killed him.
The doctors say I have less than a month to live and that's fine by me. Stage IV pancreatic cancer wouldn't you know; fun fun fun. I've suffered through the misery of this shitty world and while I never had the guts to end my own misery, I do confess to taking some modicum of solace in ending Cory's.
I must confess I experienced a certain rush of excitement when I spied Cory's smug mug sneaking up on me in the reflection of the window and I also must further confess that I was not wholly unaware of his less than Olympian constitution; purple nurple skills nothwithstanding. An opportunity presented itself and well, carpe fucking diem.
But for him, that poor kid suffering with those miserable miscreants for parents; well, if that wasn't a mercy killing then I don't know what is.
Either way, I'm not particularly long for this reality so I'll just whisper an Irish prayer for poor Cory, my little brother of another twisted mother...
Fuck it
From Crucifiction by Krafto Matix.
