The year was 1975. Near the cusp of winter, a child was born in the decrepit trailer that served as the dwelling for his family. Beholding their new child, a gift bestowed upon them by God himself, Frank and Lisa Coreman decided to name the boy Stanley. Having received their miraculous progeny in the abyss of poverty, the weary couple knew that though they did not wish to acknowledge it in their hearts that they were far from equipped to raise this squealing little creature into undamaged adulthood. Lacking the resources to provide Stanley with his basic needs like shelter, food, and clothing, they failed to shield their child from the inescapable reality that the world is a deadly place that preys on the weak and unfortunate. These weary parents thus knew in their bones that this pitiful creature, having done nothing to deserve the world’s enmity, was destined to grow up cold, sickly, and alone. 

As Stanley grew over the following five years, he would be forced to fight a lonely war against the malady that would always ravage his frame come winter, for his parents did not have the finances to take him to the doctor. All he would need, thought Stanley, was for someone to smile at him, to see genuine kindness in the eyes of a total stranger, then he would be absolved of his want of comfort and the heartless cold that relentlessly pierced him like a nail through soft flesh. 

When it came to finding warmth, Stanley quickly learned that his father, the only pillar of strength that Stanley had to cling to as the terrifying wind blew them around and forced them to live like nomads, would be of little help in providing him with warmth.  Frank could never find it in his heart to treat tenderly those weaker than him, and he never revealed to his son the mystery as to what produced a man like him, but the result was something Stanley frequently tasted. Frank was an abusive man, terrifying the boy as much as the wind that roared, for Frank had a roar of his own, scarcely a word passed his lips that was not born out of frustration and anger. Indeed, Stanley would forever remember those terrifying nights when he somehow kindled his sire's terrible rage. In his fury, Frank would demand that Stanley disrobe, an order his son dared not defy. With that fateful command, Stanley undressed down to the suit he was born in before the drunkards there to visit frank. Stanley's father would proceed to drag him by the hair down the forlorn staircase that led to the basement, a place so devoid of love, it often caused a naive Stanley to wonder if some abhorrent beast lurking in the dark had defiled it. Frank would tie his child up by the arms and leave for an interminable amount of time to retrieve the acidic toothpaste that burned the gums. An eternity always passed before his return, but when he did, he always proceeded to methodically remove his belt and smear the malevolent paste over the heartless leather. To this day, Stanley can still visualize that nebulous image, that shadowy silhouette cast across the wall of his father raising the belt over his head, preparing to bring it down with annihilating force. He can remember the noise, the damned noise among the chaos going on around him, and among the cacophony created by the blood flowing through his head, and his fickle, frantic gaze, flickering around the room. He remembers a distinct sound; that of those parasites, the drunkards, sitting on the basement stairs, not committing to a damned action, but observing the lunacy as it unfolded before them. No, this was not true. The Drunkards were active participating in the crime by yelling disgusting suggestions, and cheering on the brute Frank as he committed the abomination of beating his little boy. Long afterward, that little boy would remember the pain he experienced as his father’s black leather belt ravaged his body, and tears would stream down his quivering face whenever he recalled that terrible memory. That agony, however, was not the full extent of his suffering. 

Though Stanley was intimately familiar with the bitter sting of the chastening belt, it was in his eyes far crueler anguish to watch violence inflicted upon his mother. Indeed, to this young boy, his mother was the center of his world and the love of his life. In a world where vulnerable children are denied the comforts afforded to those more fortunate, any semblance of love, any light among the bleak ashes is precious beyond words. No wonder Stanley clung to his mother as fiercely as he did, for he was the traveler in the cold night clinging to his small campfire whilst the cold relentlessly assailed him. Unlike Frank, Lisa Coreman never ceased to bestow her unconditional love upon her only child, there was no concealed motivation lurking beneath her benevolence, which was simply her nature. All she ever did was love; hatred was unthinkable to her. Sadly, as Stanley eventually realized his everlasting sorrow, this profound quality that made her so beautiful in his eyes also set her up for a lifetime of pain. She who cannot comprehend the evil of the human heart, cannot see evil in others, and so it was for Lisa. She was a gentle, loving woman, but because of her loving nature, could not see the evil intentions lying beneath the perceived charm of a man like Frank. And so it was, they were married, and Lisa quickly realized the truth of her reality, that Frank was a manipulative monster, one capable of hurting women and children without any regard for morality. Thus, mother and child both were made constant victims of their villainous patriarch, for as gentle as she was, Lisa could never gather the courage to stand up for either herself or her child, the idea of resisting Frank, or leaving him, was simply too terrifying for her to contemplate. Thus, petrified, she put up no resistance as her malefactor husband treated her like a doormat, never having any regard for individuality or dignity as a person. Despite this cruel arrangement, Stanley knew that he was lucky to have her, for though she lacked the courage to do what needed to be done, she never gave up on trying to give Stanley an existence comparable to a normal life. 

With Stanley’s future her foremost concern, Lisa attempted to grant her boy an education by sending him to public school at the age of seven, a notion that he loathed but acquiesced to as he would have done anything to make his sad mother smile. This image would haunt him throughout his life, for bitterness is the memory of the life one wishes to return to but never can. Motivated by his mother’s encouragement, Stanley decided to give the school a shot, a conviction he would quickly come to regret as the monotony of school life bore down on him. A troubled child, Stanley did not have a good relationship with the other children, frequently finding himself in fistfights and trading insults with his classmates. There were thus many days where Stanley was sent forth on a visit to the school principal because of how often he hit a kid over the head with an old rusty tin lunchbox he could never afford to use but still cherished. School made Stanley irascible, and if antagonized, his irritable nature could manifest in a storm of anger that when roused, was terrible to behold, and thus, Stanley made few friends and many enemies, becoming an outcast among his peers. Though Stanley was bitter towards his peers, the loneliness of being a pariah ate at him as the following four years dragged on, filling his heart with yet more sorrow.            

Stanley’s mother was strong in her love, but as Stanley would later say, love, cannot be the solution to every problem. Strong as she was in this respect, Lisa Corman did not have it in her to endure the constant misery her husband subjected her to. As the years passed, more drudgery wore on her. Lisa was strong enough to survive a single insult or injury but enduring that kind of treatment for years will eat at someone, just like the rock next to the ocean will eventually be ground down to nothing as the years wear it down. So was it that Lisa became a receptacle to illness, the stress in her life eroding her health. For Stanley, this signified nothing but foreboding and dread, for though he desperately denied the truth of the matter to himself, he knew in his heart that his mother was dying. No one should have to endure abuse as long as she did, no one else could have endured, yet here she was, far past her breaking point at the onset of flu season. Stanley would always admire his mother for this feat alone. Stanley was not wrong.  

A few weeks later, his prediction would be proven correct as his mother finally succumbed to her ailment. Stanley was choked with grief, so cruel an act, so foul a crime was this, to be deprived of love at 11 years of age, it tore the world open like a Curtin and let the withering cold, with the wind he once feared, into his mind as it penetrated through his armor and stabbed his soul like a defiling knife through the heart. For months it seemed, regardless of how hard he fought them back, he could not keep his tears from blighting his dark eyes, and they froze to his face on the worst days of that harrowing winter. Nor did he know the comfort of sleep, so desolate was the world, that to him, it had shed its worth forever. No longer did the idea of tomorrow matter to Stanley, nor did today, with Lisa gone, it was no longer worthwhile to struggle for a better future. No matter what happened, his mother was gone, and that made all the difference in the world.      

In contrast to Stanley's endless grief over the death of his mother, the pitiless malefactor, Frank, met the death of his late wife with indifference. If it did not directly benefit Frank Coreman, it was not worthwhile, and even the memory of Lisa did not pass that test. Frank this lived as though nothing had changed. The only difference it made to him, was that of two souls to torment, he now had to make do with only one. His cold contempt for Stanley thus inflamed, he made every day for a year a living hell for the tormented orphan. A life of perpetual suffering hardened Stanley’s heart. With Lisa's departure, there was no emotion worth feeling, no comfort worth realizing, and no ideal worth adhering to. All he had now was Sorrow, anger, and regret, and he focused all of it on Frank. His hated kindled, Stanley decided on one fateful night in frigid December, that while his father was snuggled up tight in his bed sheets, he was going to murder the old man whilst he dreamed of hell. 

With his self-damning conviction, his stubborn resolve, Stanley would carefully and quietly acquire the metallic hammer from his father’s workbench, and furtively steal it back into the house, and into his father’s cramped bedroom. He stood over the sleeping old man, wondering why he was even here, what had gone so wrong for him to come here, to stand over his father with the intent to kill him. With this question, Stanley stopped and thought for a moment- “What crime has he committed, that is so irredeemable, that it is in my authority to pay retribution.” For a moment, this query startled Stanley, and he could not resolve this moral quandary. But as his father stirred, he remembered, despite his horror at what he was doing, Stanley could only recall with unrivaled clarity the days he spent in that lonely basement, the lashings, the burses, the chaffed wrists. Most of all, he remembered that poor beautiful woman, withering away like the rose cut from its stem, and how his father looked down on it and laughed. Stanley was wrong in his decision, he could tell, but his heart was blind and frozen, and the only firm hold in that storm of emotions was called Hate, and he used that hatred to lift that hammer over him and bring it down on his father’s head, cracking it open like an egg. 

With a single act, Stanley’s anger evaporated, replaced in an instant by all-consuming horror. “My God, what have I done!” Stanley cried as he beheld the hideous sight before him. Stanley did not know what to do next, but seeking to escape the scene of his crime, he ran away as reason disappeared and maddened flight took over. The broken child ran as nobody had ever run before or since, tears flowing from his eyes, the memory of his father’s blood leaking out of his cranium like a crimson fountain impressing itself forever in his memory. Though a despicable man, Frank was still his father, Stanley thus knew that the stain of patricide, the irremovable shame of killing one's own kin would haunt him for the rest of his days.