Some of us ask at what point our innocence is gone, those people circumvent the fact that theirs is already deteriorated, worn out, and hide in shame. Other’s lay out the facts of their lives and convince themselves whether they are innocent, or if their innocence has already been used and spent. Then there are the people like Allen, whose lives have consisted of lifelong traps, expelling away their innocence, from the harm of others or betrayal of themselves. At what point did the innocence escape from Allen? Unlike those who deny their lack of innocence, or those up-tight innocent ones who have fact schedules, Allen received a lifelong trap. Each second, minute, hour, day, week, his innocence slowly slipped from him. His father, being born with military-blood forced his dreams down Allen’s throat. Allen hated violence, he was a passive child. Every spider found in the cracks of their small shack, he would cup its body in his soft palms and release it outside, into the taller clumps of grass around the river banks, to keep it from harm. He did this with not only spiders but flies, rodents, and excessive amounts of bugs too. Allen hated pain, whether emotional, physical, or spiritual, he hated it. From age of five he knew he would be in the military, and hated every living second of it.

At an age so small that teeth still resisted growing through his gums his mother drowned in the shallow waters of the river bank, she forced her head under with her fragile hands. She had lost her reason to survive, she had lost her innocence. Cyane Task, Allen’s father rid Mrs. Task of her innocence using his selfishness. Sometimes he arrived home sober, most the time he did not, and other times he never came home at all. Mr. Task was a regular at the whorehouse; he contently visited as if it was as easy as breathing. Mrs. Task knew for what seemed forever, but as the fragile, quiet, and innocent wife she was, she refused to believe it. Until the day Mr. Task rid Mrs. Task of her innocence. The unspeakable disease ruined Mrs. Task’s innocence, and this killed her love of her husband, the villagers, and living. Mrs. Task was one of vengeance, and she swore upon the mustard yellow flowers, the jewel-like red berries that covered their green beds, the crisp cool air of fall-nights, the summer smell of warm baked bread, and god that she would have it. On a regular night of cleaning, feeding the baby, more cleaning, and the absence of her Cyane, she moved swiftly toward the river bank. She noticed simple things while her boney fingers grasped her scalp, how good the cool water felt flowing through her nostrils, raising goose bumps on her strained arms, filling up her lungs. Mrs. Task noticed how content she was with the echoing noise of water pressure thumping through her ears; she even noticed how lovely the last of the bubbles escaping her thin cracked lips looked, floating to the top to reach the air she never wanted to breathe again, Mrs. Task made the time, and obtained her vengeance.

As selfish as Mr. Task was his heart felt empty without his wife, or maybe it was his stomach, empty from his long two days at the whorehouse, aching and missing the readily prepared food he was used to arriving home with. Slightly tipsy it took Cyane almost two hours to find the source of screeching, his child. Mrs. Task managed every second of child birth and raising the child on her own, it was rather problematic when Allen’s needs collided with Cyane’s fuzzy mind. Allen was given an alcohol soaked rag to suck on every time his wails interrupted Cyane from his own needs for the next few evenings.

Soon enough the shack got dirty enough to kill any bug that entered within seconds; Cyane decided he needed a wife. Surely Mr. Task wedded a woman who was not so pretty, someone who lived for cleaning, not a husband. Her name was Alyssa, her frazzled hair stuck out in all directions and her teeth, almost as crooked as their failing farms fence. Within no time a new baby boy was born, bearing the blood of Alyssa and Cyane by the name of Charley.
By age nine Allen knew his brother was only half of a brother, and Alyssa was not his mother. They acted the same. Moving slowly but with intensity they got things done as efficient as possible. Cyane trained the boy’s everyday for military. Charley was faster, stronger, prouder; he lived for the military and loved his father dearly. Allen never would forget the feeling he had when he won against his brother on a cold summer night. Standing in the mush of sand and water on the river bank the boys traced their hands over each grain, searching for the smooth body of rocks. When each had collected five they began skipping their rocks back and forth. Charley threw first, skipping his three times before it disappeared into the depth of the river. Allen went next, skipping his rock five times before it also sank to the bottom of the river. The next four rocks from each went the same way. Every time Allen skipped his rock once or twice more than Charley. As Allen’s last rock skipped nine times, he smiled, finally beating his brother at something. As soon as this feeling filled him with joy, the feeling sank just as fast as his rock after the ninth skip. Charley’s eyes took on an emotionless glaze, his fists closed so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Allen counted to nine before his body slumped onto the ground into an unconscious heap. After the beating Charley smiled at the amount of blood that had pooled and gathered in the dips of his knuckles. Allen never again succeeded at anything; he failed, contently, exactly how he wanted to. At age 20 Allen was drafted and signed into the military, leaving his half of a brother, father, and pretend mother. Charley was never given the chance, he was punished with the lifelong task of farming, for a man who could not control his emotions, was not trusted with a gun. Cyane was transported to Washington DC, he told his boys that he was spoke highly of, and had chances of doing great things. Charley and Alyssa where left alone.

In his years gone Allen obeyed, he was a smart man, saying nothing that need not have been said. He made himself fade to the background and avoided every situation of death as probable for a man of the military. Charley wrote to Allen all the time, slowly at first, until the death of Alyssa sped up Charley’s letters. “I never knew a house could get so dirty, it feels like I am alone, well, I am. Maybe I shall marry a pretty young girl. She would know how to care for the house. I miss you brother. I am slowly fixing up the farm; it is hard work with only one man.” Charley never married a pretty young thing; he followed the steps of his father, the dirt path to the whorehouse. A time came when the military was up for Allen, but he re-enlisted, not wanting anything his father offered him, he never loved his father, and he never would. His hair barely grown out again was chopped down to his scalp, he wore the same uniform every day, Allen hid into the background again, and he looked like any other solider. Charley grew hurt, for his brother did not come home when his military time was up; he joined in again and lived the same day over and over again for years. When the time came that Allen’s time in the military was up again his hands were rougher, his eyes more intense, but he stayed the same, with an odd love for the world that he did not understand. After traveling around for a while as a poor man, Allen learned the truthfulness of less fortunate people, eventually he missed his brother and hoped to board a train to arrive at the old shack once again. Charley obtained news of his dead father, Mr. Task, and received notice of his father’s fortunes. $100,000 was left to be split equally between Charley and his brother. This was the only time in his life that Charley was not jealous of his brother. For Charley loved his father while Allen did not, but Cyane only loved Allen to Charley. Allen being poor, Charley received news of his attempts to board a train home and sent some money so that his brother could see all the work done on the farm.

Monsters are usually thought of as grotesque, contorted figures of something else that is living, but really all that monsters are, are different. Eva was a monster. She was a witty girl from the start; she was respected by her parents for she wanted to become a teacher, which was an honor for a woman in the family to do. They sent her off to the grade school and eventually high school. Everyone turned to face Eva when she walked by, she was an odd child, different from the start. From the age of only eleven she figured out how to control men. She was advanced in sexuality, and used this to her advantage. While she never got paid, Eva obtained objects that were not worthless; a locket, a jeweled barrette for her lovely golden curls. While her father suspected, he never questioned, for it was better not to know. She walked with a slight sway in her small steps, her feet were tiny and round, just like her small palms that out of grew slender fingers. Her figure was that of an hour-glass, transfixing time on anyone who looked at her. Her face was a lovely oval shape, with no sharp curves, her lips were small but plump causing a witty rose-colored smile, and her green eyes were edged with a golden shine that held secrets and lies. The almond shaped eyes where framed by perfect fans of black lashes that were accentuated by the lightest dusting of minuscule orange freckles that sprinkled the bridge of her nose; they also danced on her flushed cheeks. She was a pretty young thing, with dark secrets, her innocence left long ago, and she never would regret it. She used herself to live, her smarts to fake her death, to run away, to earn money, to have an easy life; Eva was the twisted smoke rising from her hollow oven of lies. She used a plump money-filled man for months, until he found her truths. This time he lied, he lied to her and took her away, away from the house, food, and life he had bought her for he loved her with everything and anything. In the forest and a dark and unforgiving night, the stout man beat her, beat her to which he wished was death and ran off. Not caring about his money that was now scattered on the tore up forest floor, he ran off, smiling as large as ever, for he loved the women, and he knew she loved him too.

Her broken body, he knew she had been used, and Allen loved her from the second he found her body next to the river banks edge. A woman this lovely could never betray him, maybe she was what he needed, what would fill the gaping hole in his chest. Allen lay down with his back on the trunk of the most ripen apple tree and pulled the lady into his timid arms. Allen would never know in time that Eva would be the last piece of the puzzle, the puzzle of his lifelong trap. She would steal the last of his innocence, Allen’s innocence that had been over used. His mother drowning herself, his father’s dream being Allen’s life, his jealous brother, his dying step-mother, his father now dead, his brothers beatings, his intake of alcohol as small as one year old, his secret lusts, and the most beautiful women of the world, all causing harm to his existence. They would take away his innocence and never give it back. Allen never learned this in time, for Eva became conscious too soon; Allen missed the mingled lies that caused this woman to now be in his arms. He over looked the secrets in her eyes, for she was as lovely as they came. From that moment on Allen would become engulfed by the monsters life, and his innocence was never to restore itself, for how could it when it broke into nine pieces, just like the nine skips of his rock. For in itself Allen meant harmony and noble, while Eva meant mother of life, ready to alter and change his own life for her. As Eva’s eyes twitched open—later the shot shattered through the crisp air.