As years collected I never much bothered to change my room. My childhood toys are still close at hand hidden amongst the items of my current… maturity. And my reasoning for such is that my room never then, nor does it now, possess any comfort beyond a place to sleep. I’ve spent little time in these walls, save for a period of my life where I spent my days learning anything and everything locked behind a lifeless monitor, but that was merely a phase. But history has never evolved in this square chamber. It simply amassed: time and space and things. I distinctly remember trying to hide in drawers under my bed. I distinctly remember when I thought this room was huge, and I hid things – clues, secrets, riddles, prizes – throughout my room for friends to find or for myself to find later. Yet today it is solely a place to sleep, bereft of any mystery or possibility, only insulated walls to protect me from the elements. But still the treasures of my younger days are tucked safely in boxes under my bed.
It never changed under there.
So as I wait for slumber while my mind wanders, Sigorney Weaver challenges the hideous, black jewel-hided monsters, like disfigured sculptures carved of straight obsidian, on the television as I rummage through the drawers I once hid inside of to find an old prize.
Once upon a time I was a geek for Aliens and Ellen Ripley. My mother discovered a comic that related to the movies and brought me home a copy as a surprise. My young mind was in awe. It’s sleek black binding and terrifying cover captivated me. But as I absorbed the art inside I learned that some comic books aren’t the classic silly kids’ story. And a few pages in, I found a tactfully illustrated, fully depicted, nothing left to the imagination… sex scene. The man was a sick man, an escaped convict on some desolate planet riddled with the black Aliens, starved for the touch of a woman but thankfully too modest to take what he wanted when he encountered a wayward female traveler. When she was killed, he dreamed of he and her in climax. Yes… I remember it distinctly, just like the drawers. I stared… not in curiosity but in reflection that: “my mother bought me a porno.” And as I stared longer, “my mother bought me a porno about a sick man making love to a dead woman.” It stuck in my mind. As the story progressed, he was left alone, and his mind was dark and cruel… and the story shifted to another’s peril on the planet. A woman soldier found a tribe of survivors. The tribe had formed a pact with the Aliens where, in order to retain their lives, a human baby was sacrificed regularly to the monster. The children were never intended to survive. Their conception was intentionally proposed specifically to feed the beast. When the soldier found a baby on an alter, she ran to rescue it. The alien protested, and in an attempt to save the child she fired a special round at close range, killing the alien and blinding herself. And as she crawled away, the child, as destined, began to die. The comic ended with the closing lines, paraphrased to my memory: “in its black pits there were no eyes. There was no good; there was no evil. There is no God.” I closed the comic solemnly and hid it under my bed.
It fucking disturbed me.
And today I really want to find it. But no such luck. Instead I found under my bed: a bizarre toy (a mutant pterodactyl man hybrid… I tore its wings off), a gun sight (because what child needs a gun sight for their gun?), a children’s book entitled The Most Wonderful Egg in the World, and a decapitated doll (I assume I fed it to pterodactyl man).
So in conclusion: I was a really strange kid with porn.