The Mutilator – Valentine’s Day Letter

So this is an odd post. I have always wanted to get into more creative writing and I actually had a challenge to write a Valentine’s Day letter regarding two horror characters. From the start one would quickly come up with ideas that are more comical. But I wanted to make a more serious post regarding two characters from an underrated Bronze Age slasher flick known as The Mutilator. This is kind of like another post I did in regards to Justin Jones from 1989’s Leviathan.

A short story about how a corporate entity controls all horror events as projects. Kind of a mixture of Cabin in The Woods and The Office. It’s a more serious and less horror take on the situation that takes place at the end of the film. For some reason I enjoy these kinds of writings. Like giving the story a little more development or behind the scenes kind of perspective.

You see, in all slasher films there is a cliche when it comes to the killers. They tend to be crazed people hellbent by either people intruding on their land, some sort of vengeance or a deep psychosis. The killers however, usually have loose relations to the people that they kill. Usually slasher films have the typical character tropes. The jock, the fool, the slut, the smart person and then the final person. The final person is mostly always a girl but at times it has been a guy. But the victims don’t know the killer. But 1984’s The Mutilator is a different kind of dynamic. One that I find to be very sad and depressing.

If you haven’t seen the movie then check it out. If you’re a fan of slasher films then I guarantee the movie will surprise you. But at the end, think of the killer and think of the final survivor. It will make you sad and maybe wish other slasher films could have followed the same path. But this is an idea where the character Ed Jr. desperately wants to rekindle his relationship with his father and uses Valentine’s Day as means to do so. But in letter form. Enjoy.

Dear Dad,

It saddens me to be writing this letter to you, especially of all days like today. Believe me I would give anything to talk to you man to man, or better yet; father to son. But it seems that these past few years, it has been harder for us to communicate with each other. I can’t deny my perception of the tension between us. My good friends Ralph and Mike are constant reminders of how a father and son should be with each other. I see it with them and their fathers. I feel like an outsider watching rich shoppers splurge. I admittedly grow jealous of those two. I, like you understand a little resentment to those that only love us.

I’ve done my best to make you proud of me. Trying my hardest while in school to be the best student plus working my ass off in being the athlete you’ve always wanted. But what you want is a fog to me because ever since that day, the father I once had is gone.

I know I’ve said sorry for my actions numerous times and now I believe it was never good enough. I’m sorry dad. I’m sorry for what happened to mom. I loved her so much, just as much as I loved you. I still do love you regardless of your disdain for me. She’s in my heart each and every day as are you and I constantly remind myself of what happened, searching for an explanation so I could tell you and then maybe you could forgive me. Maybe you could once more see me as your son and not the thing you regret. So here it is.

You remember leaving the house early that morning… when you went duck hunting. I loved going with you but it was your birthday. Mom and I talked about setting up a surprise celebration when you came back. So you went alone as mom and I prepared your surprise. Mom went straight to work on the cake and I the decorations. At one point I thought how great it would be for you to come home to a clean gun rack. You loved your rifle collection and so did I. It always made me fill with pride when you would let me retrieve one of your rifles for cleaning. You’d polish the barrels and let me dig out any soot from past shootings. I miss that dad. Cleaning your rifles was always my favorite moment with you. So I started cleaning one of your rifles thinking how happy you’d be to see that I could be just like you. It was meant to be your birthday present. What happened next has all become a blur and I’ve tried my best to piece it all together.

After rubbing down the rifle and polishing the wood, I lifted the rifle to so see if the sights were aligned. On the door leading to the kitchen where mom worked on your cake was a big bow. I took aim at it and focused. I didn’t mean to do it but my finger went to the trigger and pulled. The shot rang out and all time seemed to cease. Like someone hit pause on the remote control of existence. The flash blinded me and my ears rang a high pitched pulse. Little did I realize of what I had just done.

I put your rifle down and ran to the door and there she was on the kitchen floor. Even at that moment I couldn’t understand what I had done. I shot her in the back. I killed mom.
To this day it still kills me inside to think of this. To know that I killed my mother. I barely discuss it with anyone. I’m too ashamed of what I did. Accident it may be, I’m the one that killed his mother. I’m the one that made you a widower. I’ve had to live with this ever since and what I’ve realized is what tears me apart more than being the cause of my mothers death, is that you hate me for it. I don’t blame you, I would hate whoever killed my wife. The look on your face when you came through the door and saw her there. I believed you were going to kill me and I wouldn’t have stopped you. I knew I should have died right from that moment. You sat there on your couch as I called the police. You sat there and didn’t say a word to me. You sat there and drank shot after shot of your Jack Daniels. You’d become a lifelike statue to me for years to come after that. Constantly sitting there, staring and drinking. Drinking and staring. Never at me, but just the floor where moms lifeless body once laid. You were my constant reminder of my sin and after time, I started to hate you too.

But hate never brings us anything good. This letter is meant to tell you that I want you as a my father. I want to clean your rifles with you and I want to enjoy what we once had. I’m endlessly sorry for killing her and I ask that you please forgive me. Please give me a chance to be your son. To be what mom wanted us to be. We could have that joy once more. I’m not saying we forget all the wrongs that have been done. Just one day at a time is all I’m asking. This is my attempt to reach out to you and fix this terrible relationship.

I don’t know, I just want my dad back. Maybe being Valentine’s Day is a good chance for us to come back together. I love you dad and I know you love me. At least some place deep down where it hides under so much pain. I ask on this Valentines Day to please, love me like you once did. You may find that I’m not the terror you may see me as. I have friends, good friends. People that love me and enjoy me as a friend. I even have a lady friend that I’d love you to meet! What I mean is there is a person you love that you don’t know. But we can fix it. Maybe we can take a trip to the beach house this summer? Just the two of us? I know the place needs a good cleaning and renovation. It’s up to you. You’re my father and I am your son. Please let me know if we can fix this. Again I’m sorry and Happy Valentines Day.

Still Your Son,

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