George Wilcox-Atlanta, Georgia

Yeah. I have a son. No, I had a son. What, you want to know more? Fine. Mind if I drink something? Good.

My son was named after my father, Naval captain of the USS Hart. Mr. John D. Wilcox. I used to call him Captain. But, that is just off the topic. Want something? No, okay. If you want a beer or something, holler.

John and I always had a good relationship. He was the QB for Jefferson Davis High. I remember the time when he asked for a football. We were at the corner store, shopping for something for his ma. I think some eggs or something.

"Daddy, what is that?" He was four years old. Cute little thing, with his momma's blond hair and green eyes. Built like his daddy with his barrel chest. Strong too.

"That's a football." I took it down for him. He grabbed it, trying to wrap his hands around it. Couldn't the runt. It was too big.

"Can you get it for me?"

"Hm…this one is too big. Why don't you try this one," I handed him a smaller one, not one of those cheaply made NERF ones. Real pigskin. The best for my boy.

The kid was a natural. He threw it smoothly. Even his mamma was amazed.

"George. That's a good throw isn't it?" She was drying a dish. Her belly was stuck out, carrying the daughter we would lose after birth. Don't know if she would be a mutie. Wonder if she would grow to be the person to find a cure for cancer, which took the Captain. Want a beer? Sure?

I was proud of him. Every time he made the game-winning pass, I would elbow the guy next to me.

"That's my boy. See him? He's gonna be scouted by colleges around this Nation because of that pass. That's my boy."

Yeah, he was my boy. Then he hit 16. Then he fucked his life up for good. It was the all-county championship game between the Jefferson Davis Grizzlies and the Palmetto Sharks. We were winning. Then, something happened that would fuck up his life.

It was the final moments of the game. John was going to make the game-winning pass, and the crowd was going to rush onto the field and throw their arms around my boy. But that didn't happen. This did.

There was a commotion on the field. We all looked to where people were running from. It was my boy, or what I thought was my boy. He was covered in fur, his ears on the top of his head, like a wolf. It was a monster. A freak. It was my son.

"Dad, dad, what's happenin' to me? Dad?" He was on all fours. I thanked God my wife was dead from the Captain's disease.

"What the fuck are you? You aren't my son!!" My boy was a monster.

He came home at 3:00 in the morning. I had all his stuff packed, except for the trophies. I was on the couch, shotgun in hand.

"Get out mutie. Now."

"Daddy, it's me. I'm normal now. I don't know what happened. Daddy please."

"Get the hell out of my house! You ain't my son! Leave you monster!!" He grabbed his stuff, looking at me with his mamma's eyes. He turned and left.

They found him in an alley. He had a hole in his head. Gun was in his hand. His throwing hand. He killed himself. I threw my boy out and he killed himself. He had a great future ahead of him. He ruined it. He was a mutie. 16 years old.

"You seem to have conflicting feelings. You love him, but you hate him for what he was."

I hate him. He was everything I couldn't…he had a future! He would be someone. But now. He's rot.

"Do you still have the trophies?"

Yeah, I do. Wanna see them? This one was for being the all-county champion. Here his is in the newspaper, with that throwing arm of his. Good arm.

"Mr. Wilcox, thank you. Do you have a copy of this? I'd like to keep it."

Yeah, here's one. That was my boy. Before he became that freak.

"Thank you for your time. I appreciate it."

Welcome. That was my boy. My boy…