AGALMATOPHILIA

_-:17:-_

Brendon Boyd Urie, age eight, sat on his fathers property and stared out at the vast stretch of fields and forest, humming to himself.

Perched upon a rotting log, the innocent child swung his legs back and forth, eagerly awaiting his father to approach.

Promised a day of hiking, Brendon beams with joy, his little body practically gyrating at the thought of finally spending time with his father.

For the eight years of his life, Brendon had never met his father, his mother had shipped him off to finally see him, yet the poor boy was unaware e would never return to his own home.

A tall slender figure draws nearer to the happy kid, a large hand clamping down on his shoulder.

Brendon jumps, calming slowly once he hears his fathers laugh.

"You ready to go dad?" The child jumps down off the log, brushing himself off.

"Sure am kiddo, you're going to need this," his father thrusts a rifle into his child's arms, confusion crossing the young ones face.

"What for?"

"Hunting," the father confirms with a nod.

Frozen to his place, Brendon watches as his dad loads the rifle, pulling the pin back and down with a loud clack.

He follows suit and loads his own rifle, swallowing back the strange feeling boiling within his chest.

Unsure as to what he would be shooting, butterflies well within his belly.

"Come," with a hearty slap on Brendon's shoulder the older man turns and begins to wander away into the forest surrounding them.

Little legs struggle to keep up, fumbling with the firearm a few times as it was too heavy for the small frame to properly handle.

After an hours travel deep into the heart of the bush land, the older man pauses, halting his son in his tracks.

He crouch's down, motioning for Brendon to join which he does.

"Deer, across from us,"

Brendon peers around some trees, a beautiful fawn coloured doe stands still within the brush, lazily grazing foliage from underneath her hooves.

Brendon swallows thickly, his heart pounding.

He had never killed anything before, even bugs that would wander inside he would carefully capture under glasses and postcards to tip them back outside.

"Butt against your shoulder, eye down the sight, lift it higher Beebo you won't get a clear shot like that," his father instructs, helping him to position the firearm against his tiny body.

"Do I have to kill it?"

His father nods, tipping the gun up higher.

Brendon inhales deep, closing one eye as he glares down the barrel through the sight.

Finger trembling, he reaches for the trigger, whole body shaking.

The doe lifts its head, turning to make eye contact with Brendon, and he stops, lowering the rifle.

"Dad I can't, I don't want to hurt it..."

The man beside him slowly turns to scowl at his son.

"Why not?"

"Because it didn't do anything to me! It's cute, I can't hurt it,"

His father scoffs, raising his own gun.

"Only I would end up with a pussy for a son,"

A shot rings out within the peaceful surrounding, Brendon slack jawed as a bullet tears through the eye of the precious animal, blood and brain splattering the nearby trees, bark stained.

The whole world comes to a dead stop, the event replaying over and over within the tiny head of Brendon, the blood spewing out from the animals mouth.

His father lets out a cry of triumph, Brendon placing his gun to the dirt below.

Brendon closes his mouth finally, ringing throughout his head. He watches as his father starts towards the slaughtered animal.

He too approaches the corpse, shocked to find the body still twitching.

The older man hands him a hunting knife, kneeling down in front of the animal.

"The least you could do is skin it,"

Brendon looks down at the knife twirling between his fingers.

With hesitation, mostly fuelled by the need to be accepted by his father, the relationship rocky ever since he left his mother, Brendon begins to gut the deer, peeling back the skin.

His father shows him exactly how to dissect the flesh so he can pull it off in one go.

The rest of the evening is spent shooting and skinning small creatures and two more deer.

Brendon walks home in silence a few feet back from his father, afraid and angry.

He lets a few quiet tears slip down his face, wiping blood across his cheeks as he attempts to swat the salty streams of liquid from his skin.

The first thing the child does when he gets home is call his mother, and beg her to let him go back his own house, yet she refused, reassuring Brendon he should stay for the allocated time.

"But mom, how long will that even be? I want to come home, I hate it here,"

"Brendon please, you haven't seen your father at all, you need to spend time with him,"

Defeated, the small brunette slumps down against his wall, gathering his knees up against his chest.

Weeping to himself, he feels dirty, blood metaphorically staining his hands, a thick layer of grime covering his whole body.

As he showers that night, and scrubs his body raw, Brendon swears he would never hurt another animal again.

"What's eating ya kiddo?" His father casually asks, sliding a plate of roast beef towards him.

Brendon, with small hands clasped together between his knees, stares down at the plate, before looking up at the adult across from him.

"Why do you kill the animals?"

"For food," the older man responds, shovelling huge forkful of meat into his mouth, Brendon flinching at the act.

"I don't like it,"

"Well you're going to have to get used to it if you're going to live here now,"

"Mom says I'm going home,"

His father laughs, raising his eyebrows.

"Did she now?"

"Paul says that I shouldn't be here because you drink whiskey and smoke and that you're a bad influence," Brendon mumbles, poking his meal gingerly with his fork.

"Who's Paul?" The growl behind the words catch the young boy off guard.

"M-moms boyfriend,"

"Well Paul isn't your dad and I am and you'll do as I say and tomorrow you will shoot a rabbit you hear me?" He snaps, and Brendon nods in fear.

"Dad why do I have to shoot things?"

"It builds character, I don't want you growing up being some poof who doesn't know how to be a man,"

Brendon nods in agreement, turning back to his untouched meal.