I step inside and there he is, sitting in his own sick and blowing raspberries. The man whose orders had killed thousands of people, his willful ignorance that had caused so much suffering; this pathetic little man who had tried to appear imposing and powerful all his life has become a practical vegetable.
I wipe the drool off his face without being particularly gentle. Then I notice the stench. He has been flinging his shit at the walls again. I get the sponge and start wiping his tiny wrinkled hands, soft and caked with shit while he giggles absentmindedly. I try not to think. It makes it all just harder. But suddenly a memory of auntie Carla pops up, smiling, always smiling.
My hands begin to shake and I try to get her out of my head but just can’t. Carla had been taken in the dark of night by this man’s goons, never to be seen again but now her smile is here to stay.
I can’t hold back the tears. I don’t even try to. The old man looks at me like a four-year-old who was denied their dessert. His spirits suddenly turn to mischief as he pisses himself while I am busy wiping his other hand.
Carla, where are you? What have they done to you?
He screams for a second and whines. I had snapped his pinky apparently. Hunched over his hand he spews gibberish at me, tries to lash out but is too weak to hurt a fly.
I grab his other hand and watch his face while I bend back the very finger that had held the pen that had signed so many orders and decrees. I bend it all the way back until I feel the resistance of some little bone. I keep pushing. Snap. More noise, crying, whining.
He’s on the floor now, rolled into a fetal position, trying to protect his digits from me. I should feel something, pity, remorse. But there is nothing inside of me left. My heart was broken so many times; taken, beaten, and disappeared.
I kick the pudgy old fucker. It stirs nothing. I kick again, harder. I start to feel something. Another kick, with gusto. Some bone inside the old sack cracks. Someone’s shouting. More kicks. I realize I’m crying and raving, my shouts blending with the terrified gibberish and someone else’s yells in a hellish cacophony.
When they take me away, my mind is playing my best childhood memories on shuffle—Don’t let her go!—waves of the Pacific wash over my feet—You are under arrest!—climbing the old pine with my brother--You have the right to remain silent—running naked through a warm summer rain—What did she do to him?—Grandpa showing me how to hold the reins—Anything you say can and will be used against you—the taste of fresh cornbread—My god! Is that his brain on her shoes?!—Getting tucked in for the night by my favorite auntie. That smile that keeps on giving.