We used to play King of the Mountain. Any high ground would do. Even just a foot off the earth was enough to rule around here. But there could be only one. No court, no aristocracy. Just one kid fighting off would-be usurpers. Each of us made to rise–toes digging into dirt, heads lowered to charge, elbows flying wild–and if you succeeded in deposing your brother, your sister, your cousin, you turned to defend what you'd only just gained. Kings never lived long.

One time Pop had a giant mound of mulch set to spread, and we all went clamoring for it till you knocked Bo down in his Tommy Hilfiger. Bo was always real into things like that - labels and shit - so when he bug-eyed at the black smudge on his fancy ass t-shirt, you knew you were cooked. He tore off after you into the neighbor’s yard, tripped you up, pinned you down with a pole. He was pushing the pole down over your chest, but you were holding him off. The rest of the cousins circled around taking sides. Casey yelled, “You can take him, Ty!” and that put something in you. So you shoved up one side of the pole and smacked Bo in the side of the head. He rolled off you, and you ran again. The adults were outside by this point so you ran to his mother and yours and screamed, “Help! Bo’s trying to kill me.”

“The adults are talking,” Mom said. Bo caught up and pounded you into the dirt like a worm. The mothers finished their conversation. Kids whaling on other kids was out of their jurisdiction. You should have known better. But you could only run for so long.

Or how about before you started school when Gramma kept you and Seth? Between Price Is Right and Ricki Lake, there wasn’t much to do but snoop through hers and Pop’s drawers. So you’re in the bathroom, you and Seth, and you pull out Pop’s straight blade. “Dare me to shave my finger?” you ask him and him just staring with his Precious Moments eyes, shaking his head. So you drag the blade down your finger anyway. Seth ran to tell Gram you were bleeding and the whole time you're squeezing your finger to stop the sting, but more blood comes with it, so by the time Gram made it back there, it looked worse than it was.

“You better hope you don’t need stitches!” she said. You didn’t know what stitches were except they were always something you were gonna get if you weren’t careful. You didn’t get any that day. Just a band-aid wrapped too tight and a spanking from Pop when he heard what you did.

Then there was that time Jessie got busted and thrown in the drunk tank and called Mom and Dad to bail her out, but they were too lit to drive so they made Seth drive because he had his permit and Dad sat shotgun with a road beer in one hand and a menthol in the other and him telling Jessie, “I’m disappointed in you.” And Jessie threw herself a pill party the next night, came stumbling out of her room like a zombie, fell, and pulled the crucifix down with her, little metal Jesus cracking on the hardwood. His arms stayed put, but the rest of him swung around on the screw in his feet, so Dad tried to glue him back together, but every now and then the glue would give and Jesus would be upside down again looking like the hanging man in Jessie’s tarot cards.

Or how you went to that party and everyone was making out except this one girl, the good girl, the prude who was looking down her nose at everyone. So the guys dragged her off the couch by her arms and legs, pulled her shirt over her head, and started dumping drinks on her. One of them picked up a 2-liter and poured it over her crotch, then emptied it out on her face. She screamed and choked, and we let her go. But you're still holding on to her in your head.

Now you're grown and your kids are fighting over the bubble gun - the only toy gun your wife will allow - and you're telling them to share, not to hit. You tell them, “Don't be bad.” And your wife is correcting you, “Don't make bad choices.” But she doesn't know how bad you wanna pop them. Not the bubbles, the kids. The way you were when you were bad.

But instead you put them in timeout and you're sitting with the boy and he says, “Daddy, will you tell me a story from when you were little?”

You're digging, and all that’s coming up is sludge. The punch to the gut, the belt leather snapping, the locked closet door, everything a weapon.

You were sure there was something pure at the bottom of it all, but it's coming up spoiled, and you wonder how you've been living on this shit for years. And you can't think what to give this kid. What do you have to draw from? What have you been drawing from all along?