Alan, the Champion — Chapter 2 — Three Years Old
The first death Alan saw was at age three. The rest was all downhill.
Before he was King, he was cannon fodder, a convict, a killer. At thirteen, he ran grown men.
The first death I ever saw was when I was three.
I remember it in pieces. That's how a kid's memory works — no beginning, no end, just snapshots that stayed lit while the rest went dark.
I remember the kitchen light. One bulb, no shade, hanging from a wire. I remember the cold floor under my feet. I remember the fridge humming, because the fridge kept humming the whole time, start to finish, like nothing was happening.
My father and my mother lived the same way. Together, fighting, together again. He kept his stash in a can on top of the cupboard, and she knew where it was, and sometimes, when she ran short, she dipped into it. Everybody in that house pretended it would never add up to anything one day.
That night it did.
My father was in a crisis. He'd used what he shouldn't have, or hadn't used what he needed — from the outside, same thing. His voice came out loud and senseless, words that didn't make sentences. He paced from one side of the kitchen to the other, slapping his own head.
My mother tried to explain. Then she tried yelling back. Then she tried to get past him toward the door.
He closed both hands around her neck.
I watched her thrash. Watched her feet scrape the floor looking for footing that wasn't there. Heard her scream until the scream turned into something else, lower, and then turned into nothing.
And I watched the life leave. Not the body — the eyes. There's a moment when the eyes are still there, open, turned your way, and still there's nobody behind them anymore. I was too small to have a word for it, but big enough to see it.
My father let her drop to the floor. He stood there, staring at his own hands, like they'd done it on their own.