A lot of people think when
a writer say's this is a true story it isn't really. But I found by hard research these
stories generally are true! For, example, Kurt Vonnegut's Slaugter House Five is a
true story, it's just written weird. Butch is a true story. When I was eleven my dad
and one of his friends build and drove modified racecars. This was in the Inland
Empire, or San Gabriel Valley, just east of Los Angeles.
One Saturday
my dad visted his friend,Philip. I begged along hoping they were going to spend
the day working on Philip's racecar, but they didn't. When I got bored enough I split
and walked about the neighborhood looking for something to do. This was when I saw
Butch. I don't remember what he was doing, doesn't matter I guess. Anyway I
stopped and talked to him. His name was Butch and he was seven years old. We
hung around together for a few of hours and I decited I better get back to Philip's.
After a couple of weeks my dad needed to see Philip
again and so again I went along to watch them work on their cars which they didn't. So
bored I went out into a summer day to seek my fortune. And there was Butch sitting
on the curb looking down at his feet. I sat down next to him and said Hi. He
responded Hi back sort of depressed like and then he pulled up his sleeve and
showed me his left fore arm. On
it was a fresh scar where the letters B U T C had been crudly carved into it. I never said
a word, just let him tell his story.
"I used my pocket knife." Butch explained.
"There's no H because I had to stop when the pain became too much. My dad took
me into the garage and poured gasoline over my arm and the took me to the hospital.
"
After that Butch stood and ran away. I don't get sick from the sight of blood, it's
his arm after all, but what bothers me is what drives people to mutilate themselfs that way?
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