Chapter Text
Every day I would spare a sidelong glance at the house next door to my own as I walked by, mostly out of habit at this point. It had stood empty for so many years now, it wasn’t like I expected to see anything new. Why the city never reclaimed it, I never understood. Twelve years it had sat there, a total blight on the neighborhood, yet somehow it remained completely ignored by all except for me. Twelve years had passed since the terrifying man who lived there had bidden me farewell before vanishing to God knows where, seemingly leaving in that house some of the same magic that kept him invisible to the world.
I had been only six or seven years old at the time, but I remembered that night as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. My initial reaction to Johnny C.’s departure had been profound relief. The screams that emanated from his house at all hours had ceased, and there were no more impromptu late-night visits that had me clutching my teddy bear Schmee and wondering if this time, I might be joining those screamers. In time, though, the relief gave way to sadness as I slowly came to the realization that I actually missed Nny. In retrospect, I’d begun to understand that he never would have hurt me because he had actually cared about me. He had cared enough to talk to me, try to offer guidance, tell me bedtime stories, even come to my rescue once or twice! As frightened as I had been of the Scary Neighbor Man, the fact remained that no other person had shown such regard for me, before or since. Not even my own parents. Especially not my own parents. After having this epiphany, I found I was bothered less and less by the fact that he had been a murderer. Beggars can’t be choosers when you’re a love-starved child. I waited for him to return, but he never did.
The years dragged on, and still he didn’t come back. I eventually stopped waiting… at least with any real conviction. I grew up, doing the best I could in a hostile, indifferent world that cared nothing for me. I threw myself into school and learning, determined to pull myself out of the dark existence circumstance had granted me. I figured that if I didn’t look after myself, no one would. I don’t understand why, but I never felt much bitterness over my plight. I knew I had plenty to be angry about, but I just didn’t seem to have it in me. Sadness and loneliness, sure. But never anger.
I found my solace in writing and reading. The pain of my parents’ profound apathy or the unkindness of my classmates was eased by escape through the written word and the pleasure of creative outlets.
Through it all, Nny was never far from my thoughts. When I was little, I took to thinking of him whenever I was scared, which was quite often. I would remember the things he told me and think of his fearsome visage and somehow, it helped me to be brave. As I began trying my hand at writing, he found his way into several stories or poems in some form or another.
It was during puberty and beyond that my fixation on the memory of Nny would take a strange turn. My burgeoning adolescent desires did not manifest in the usual teenage preoccupations. Instead of girls—or even boys— my own age, the erotic fantasies that burned in my mind’s eye were dominated by the dark, imposing figure that had haunted my childhood. Stranger still, perhaps owing to the fact that I had only been a small child when I last saw him, I found that I would often imagine myself the size of a child, helplessly compliant as Johnny towered over me, taking me in his arms and overwhelming my every sense. My memory served me well. I could envision every detail with perfect clarity from the manic intensity in his dark eyes to the grace and power of his lean frame. My imagination seemed to dwell in particular on his hands, and I’d touch myself desperately as I pictured those long fingers caressing my body.
I was so ashamed of these fevered imaginings. I knew that even if I did see Nny again someday, there wasn’t a chance in Hell that my fantasies would ever become reality. Even in the throes of climax, I would flush with embarrassment, wondering what he would think if he knew what he had become to me. With an irrational thrill, some part of me wondered if he might even kill me if he knew. After all, it was my innocence that he had seemed to think so highly of. Without that, how was I any different from the rest of humanity for whom he held in such contempt?
Another part of me wondered how I might get through life tormented by desires that could never be fulfilled. To date, I was a virgin, but what would happen if I did finally try to engage someone sexually? I’d suffer the guilt and dissatisfaction of forever comparing my partners to an ideal that could never be met, because that ideal was a childhood memory of the most dangerous, unattainable person I’d ever known. It was a dreary prospect, but one that I was fully prepared to endure. What choice did I have?