A.N.: Short poem inspired by that one scene in Freddy's past, where we learn he was abused. Based, of course, on the famous Freddy lullaby. I don't own Nightmare on Elm Street, of course. Too bad. Anyway, tell me what you think, PLEASE.
One, two, daddy's coming for you.
Freddy Krueger crept up to his foster father's house. The small, crying voice emanating from within was no surprise to him. His lip curled up in disgust. "So, daddy dearest is up to his old tricks again," he thought. "I guess it really is useless to try and teach old dogs new tricks." But that didn't stop the pang of guilt that ran through him.
That little girl standing there in the corner of the room, crying and frightened, could have been him. For many years, it had been him. He had been young, and frightened, and too small to fight back. His foster father would come into his room. He would be three sheets to the wind and in another mean mood. Looking at the room and the little girl, he could see that it was too late.
Sighing and leaning back, one lone tear made its way down his cheek. Another child was lost. Another pang of guilt ran through him. If he hadn't started fighting...he pushed the thought away. Thoughts like that were useless. What was done was done, and there was no going back. The only thing that mattered now was what to do with this latest child. This latest child would now have to join all the other children; the children that he had dubbed "his children."
Three, four, he locks your door.
Looking in the window again, memories flooded Freddy's mind. He could remember sitting in that same corner himself, waiting for his foster father to come home. He would hope in vain that it wouldn't be another one of those nights; hope that, when the footsteps came down the hall, they would pass his room by. They almost never did. His foster father would come in, closing and locking his bedroom door, drawing the curtains on the window. It looked like daddy dearest was beginning to slip up. Not that he could ever hide anything from Freddy. Freddy knew him too well.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, Freddy hauled himself up and away from the window. He had to wait. He couldn't let himself be seen by his foster father, or he'd never get to the girl. He would have to wait until the old fool was either asleep or gone, whichever came first. He could never tell.
He walked quickly across the street. Ducking into the nearest alley, he settled himself in to wait. From this position, he could see the front of his foster father's house perfectly, without being visible. His car was around the corner in another alley; another place that was easily missed. His foster father would never know that he was there. Of course, he would suspect it anyway.
As it got later, Freddy couldn't stop memories from surfacing. He knew all too well what that girl had been through. It had happened to nearly a dozen children before her. And every time, the memories that Freddy tried so hard to escape came back to torment him.
Five, six, it's you he kicks.
Freddy brought his knees up to his chest, hugging himself. He stared at the front door across the street, but didn't really see it. He saw the inside of the house. He saw a small room on the side. He saw a group of children; his children. But most of all, he saw himself, as a young child. He saw what happened with every one of them.
It always started with a menacing smile that never reached his foster father's eyes. That smile was what Freddy had feared most, for many years. It hadn't been until he was older, a senior in High School, in fact, that he had stopped fearing it. But by that time he could fight back, unlike these other children.
Of course, it wasn't just the smile, but what came with it. That smile always came with a belt; a thick, leather belt with a metal buckle. He would hold it in a loop and whip it around. Or, if he were in a particularly vicious mood, he would simply use the buckle. It eventually got so that Freddy couldn't feel it. That's when the tables got turned.
His thoughts were once again interrupted, this time by his foster father's exit. Freddy saw him look around with quick, paranoid movements. Freddy brought himself up to a crouch. His foster father got in a car and rove off. It was time.
Seven, eight, you're laid out straight.
When his foster father was out of sight, Freddy stood fully up. He crossed the street again, walking up to the front door. He pulled out a small wire. Working as fast as he could, he picked the lock with steady hands. It popped open a minute later.
Freddy went in, making his way to the side bedroom. He unlocked and opened the door and looked in; the girl gazed up at him with fearful eyes. He walked over and crouched in front of her. She stayed silent. "It's okay, little girl. Freddy's here now," he whispered in what he hoped was a soothing voice.
"He hurt me," she whimpered. Her cheeks were wet, her eyes swollen and red. Welts covered what skin he saw.
"I know. But we're going away from him now," Freddy told her, his own eyes filling with tears. He picked her up as gently as he could. "Where?" she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck. Freddy noticed a large red stain on the floor where she had been sitting; she wouldn't last long. There was a matching stain on the bed; a chilling tribute to what had happened here.
Nine, ten, it starts again.
It was later, in his boiler room. The girl was dead. After looking at how hurt she was, he knew that there was no saving her. All he could do was ease her death. All he could do was send her off to be with all of his other children. It made him wonder why he hadn't died, too.
Of course, the horrible, crushing sense of guilt might, eventually. Every time this happened, he had a sense that if he hadn't left, it wouldn't' have. It never would have started. And no matter how often he told himself it wasn't true, he couldn't believe it.
When he was strong enough, he had turned on his foster father. Finally, he had been the one dealing pain. He hadn't even felt it when his foster father had fought back. He had exalted in the older man's screams.
But after he had left, children had begun disappearing. And when he checked it out, it was always too late. He had killed nearly a dozen children so far. He wondered how many more he would.