BILL CADY Word Count: 149,227 - At My Friend's Place

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Bill Cady, The Early Years … by Bill Cady 265 that moment. I need to digress a moment to give you some important information so you‟ll understand everything. From my early teen years, maybe even thirteen, until I was twenty-seven, I was one of the most dangerous kind of people on earth. Not because I was a violent predator, like Charles Manson, or Hannibal Lecter. No, it was because of the way I felt inside. I honestly didn‟t care if I lived or died. I had no wish to die, beyond the fact I still remembered, as I do yet today, how much more wonderful that existence is than what we have. I also didn‟t really have a wish to live. Why? Why would I? <strong>My</strong> life wasn‟t happy at all. It wasn‟t something that brought me new challenges and opportunities every day. I did what I did each day, went to bed, got up the next day and did the same thing. I had nothing to live for. No reason to continue, if you will. While I wasn‟t suicidal, I placed little value on my own life. I was a helluva lot more afraid of being injured than of being killed, although I knew by that point I could survive the most painful injuries and continue undaunted. How do you deter, or fend off, a man who‟s willing to die if he has to raise a fist against you? You don‟t. You can‟t. A man like that won‟t be scared away by anything, and you‟ve gotta kill him to stop him. If you‟re not willing to go that extra yard against a guy like that, it‟ll mean your ass. I was that guy. It lasted until, at age twenty-seven, I got my oldest kids, Stephanie and Stuart. Suddenly, I cared. I wanted to be there to watch „em grow up. Suddenly, my life mattered a little bit. Those feelings stayed with me until I finally accepted a few years ago my kids have turned away from me. What I have now is, in essence, much as it was Leviticus, Limited 33-0505963
Bill Cady, The Early Years … by Bill Cady 266 before, but without the steam pressure I felt back then. I‟m not afraid to die, and more than likely wouldn‟t feel any kind of regret as I passed into the next existence. The one thing I can still sense that makes me want to stick around is the unfinished business of my life. Dutiful to the very end, I‟ll plod on until that‟s all been done. When I‟ve reached that point, I‟ll make my next decision. So, there we stood. Mom and me in the front room. Her in a nighty, me in my street clothes, swaying like a tall California redwood in a hurricane force wind. “Fast Fred” in the bedroom door with a .38, wondering if someone was going to die in the next few minutes. Wondering if it might be him, at my hand. Killed by his own son. Wondering if it might be me, at his own hand. The killer of his own son. Everyone wondering. Mom went ballistic, yelling at him to put that goddamned gun down. I told him to go ahead and shoot. Said it didn‟t matter to me, and I was telling him the truth. It made absolutely no difference at all to me. None. Then, when Mom started crying, that made a difference. I loved her too much for that, particularly when I was the reason she was crying. I kissed her on the forehead and went drunkenly downstairs, where I fell into my bed in a sodden stupor and slept until the afternoon. When I got up the next day, nothing was ever said about that incident. We never again discussed it, and you‟re the first one I‟ve ever told since it happened. Leviticus, Limited 33-0505963
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BILL CADY Word Count: 149,227 - At My Friend's Place

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