CHAPTER ONE
My name is Malefic. I was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. I am of Russian descent; first generation American. My family moved here shortly before I was born.
My grandfather hated Americans. He harbored bitter feelings from when they abandoned his people and left them to fend for themselves during the great war. If not for their thick skin and resilience to the bitter cold, the Germans would have defeated them. If the Germans would have kept coming though, I’m sure that my people would have fought to the last person—man, woman, or child.
We Russians are not a timid people.
My grandfather beat this into my father, and my father made it a point to try to beat it into me.
I was a small child, so I was picked on a lot. I would get beat on by the kids at school, and then when I got home, I’d be beaten again by my father for allowing those kids to beat me.
I hated going to school. I hated going home. I had no friends. Even the girls picked on me.
When it was discovered that I was Russian, kids started calling me Ruskie, and Commie, and other names I won’t mention.
For some reason, Americans hated Russians, just as much as my grandfather hated them. How could two countries that were allies in a war hate each other so much? It just didn’t make any sense to me.
Either way, I was the poor little innocent kid, caught in the middle of it all.
As I said before, I didn’t have any friends. What I did have was a dog. He was better than any kid could have had.
Old man Jones, who lived down the street from us, had some puppies, and he was giving them away. When I got there, there was only one left, the runt of the litter, the one no one else wanted. But I wanted him. I did.
I loved that dog the instant I saw him.
I named him Tiny.
My dad hated Tiny. He called him a worthless mutt. He even kicked him a few times. Only a few times though, because Tiny was smart. He learned quickly to stay away from my dad.
Man, my dad was such a mean and miserable man. How could he be so cruel to such a precious little dog? It didn’t make any sense.
Sure, he beat on me, but I just figured it was my own dumb fault for being so small. I wasn’t the big strong boy that my dad should have had. Plus, I was so uncoordinated. I was always bumping into things and breaking things. I never watched where I was going.
It was hard for me to concentrate. Even in school, I had a difficult time. I had problems understanding things. The teachers always thought that I was clowning. They were always sending me home with notes, telling my parents that I wasn’t working up to my potential. Of course, this was just another reason for dad to beat me. After a while, I started forging dad’s signature to return the notes to the teachers.
As I said, the teachers thought I was clowning, but I wasn’t. My grades were just one more thing for the kids to pick on me about. That was alright though, because I didn’t need any of them. I had Tiny.
I loved Tiny, and Tiny loved me. Tiny was my best friend. We were inseparable.
Our house bordered the woods, and Tiny and I would spend hours traipsing through them. I would pretend to be a warrior king, and Tiny was one of my many loyal subjects.
I fancied myself a good king, and that my subjects served me out of their love and admiration for me, a great escape from reality. Tiny and I had a lot of fun.
Unfortunately for Tiny, he had to sleep outside. My father refused to let him in the house. As I mentioned before, he thought the dog to be of even lesser value than me. That lesson was pounded into me when we moved from Little Rock to Dumas, Arkansas, and my dad made me leave Tiny behind.
When we had everything packed and ready to go, I was carrying Tiny to the car when dad stopped me, picked Tiny out of my hands and tied him to the tree in our front yard. When I started to protest, my dad looked at me with that look he got in his eyes, the look I knew meant trouble was coming, and told me that if I said one word about that stupid mutt, if he heard one sound coming from my mouth, he would really let me have it. I believed him.
As we made our final descent down the long gravel drive toward the street and to a new city, I watched out the back window as Tiny tried to follow us. He was nearly choking himself, jumping and tugging for dear life trying to break free from the rope. I could hear him calling to me, “Where are you going? Don’t leave me! Hey, my friend, why are you leaving me?” I answered him in my mind, screaming back to him, “I’m sorry….I am soooo sorry my friend.” The tears poured down my cheeks and blurred my vision until I couldn’t see him anymore.
Something happened to me that August morning. I felt something move and shift inside me. A part of me was left there on the driveway. A part of me died that morning.