Golden Rule

“All this I’ve taught you, everything about vamps and shit, what’s rule number one?”

He shifts from one foot to the other, hawks up a wad of chewing tobacco and spits. I consider his question, the irony of what he has hammered into me both physically and mentally. So much effort to instill a personal code of selfishness. So much time given to liken my thinking to his. I’ve always felt that the need for a teacher to impart knowledge to a student was to leave a legacy. But what point is a legacy if this is what you hold to the very fiber of your being.

“No one else matters. No one is worth dying for. Survive, at any cost.”

He gives a short nod at my answer. He extends his hand and I brace for impact. But he gently taps my face in paternal approval. I look at the ground at the wad he spat on the gas station forecourt. Even in the poor neon light I can make out the faint pink tinge to the spittle mixed into the tobacco. He rights his cap and gives a smile.

“Good kid. You might just make it.”

He turns and heads to the front of his truck. I should hate him. The hillbilly fuck who took my life, inflicted unrelenting pain on me night after night, the monster who stripped every moral away from me. I don’t. I feel a numb gratitude. A grudging appreciation that he went to such lengths to pass on his code. Because as fucked up and twisted as it may be, it’s his code and it’s the very thing that defines him. And now it defines me.

Irony. He didn’t kill me. He just recreated me in his own image. And as profoundly selfish as that may be, there is a silent generosity buried in his actions. I feel... worthy. He pulls himself into his cab, slams the door and leans out the open window.

“We’re done, kid. I’m head’n north so we’ll probably never meet up again.”

He leans closer out the window and I can tell he wants to share some last wisdom. Final words to guide me through the nights.

“Don’t fuck up.”

He fires up his rig. For a moment I contemplate the validity of living a life without having something to die for. I wash away the notion with a new found revelation of my own. If you can’t preserve your own life, anyone is entitled to take it. And you know, I can think of a lot of folk that don't deserve to survive

I want to say something to him. Before he leaves. Something profound and lasting. To tell how right he is or how utterly wrong his views are. That I will have my revenge or that I’ll miss the beatings. To tell him I love him or that I hate him. But after it all, the best I could manage is,

“See you around, Cletus.”