The Wild Hand

Otho had his demons, alright. Maybe being born attracted the lot. Maybe he befriended a few more during the war; who knows? They lived in the bottle mostly, but the ghosts came out in droves when the lid came off.

His mother enrolled him at a very early age in a West Texas convent. She placed his older sister there too, and then took off to dance her way across the plains. He never saw her again until the age of eleven, but by then his path had been paved with the uneven stone.

Memories of nuns went unspoken during his lifetime, perhaps forgotten. Recollections, those of deeds done and punishments received, stopped.

He never mentioned the times spent in Guadalcanal. He didn’t have to. The look of that unspoken horror lay concealed behind a thick pair of glasses, veiled by a thunderous voice wanting to chide and belittle any and all that wandered across his path. Only those bearing the means to loose the demons gained Otho’s respect.