My Name is Joe
My name is Joe. I was named after an old mutt that my Pa kept under the floorboards of the front porch. When he became angry at me, he threw me under the porch with the dog with bowls of insect infested dog food. Sometimes, I stayed there for days but I would try to sneak out at night if it was raining to catch water in my cupped hands. If I was able to capture enough rainwater, I would try to clean the flea bites marching up my legs. The ole dog knew better than to venture out and become kicked by my Pa so I’d try to get some water in his dog bowl. I loved ole Joe Dog – he was the only creature in my life that cared about me as he licked my face and wagged his tail.
One day, I decided to leave this house of misery, carrying ole Joe dog with me as I tried to hold his jaw shut so he wouldn’t bark. All of a sudden, my Pa came roaring out of the house, knocked my only friend out of my arms and kicked him viciously with his hard toed boots until he was torn and lifeless. I looked around for a weapon, grabbing an old floor board from the porch and whacked Pa on the back of his head until he was bloody and had stopped breathing.
Pa was heavy as I dragged his limp body under the porch and laid him next to Mama’s bones. Oh, did I forget to tell you what Mama had done to me before she died? She treated me worse than Pa did. Pa never knew what had happened to her, thinking that she had finally left him.
But I knew what had happened to Ma so long ago and I never regretted it for a moment. I lived in that old house for the rest of my life, adding more bodies to the ones under the house, stacking them neatly in a pile.