Now Ellie was a boy,

though folks often mistook him

for a girl.

Not just ‘cause of his name,

but his long blonde curls.

See, his full name was Elliot,

named after his pa—

but that man wasn’t worth much.

He left Ellie and his ma.

So his ma made sure her boy

wouldn’t carry his flaws.

She threw Ellie in the tub, scrubbed him

‘til his skin was red and raw.

Then she stuck him in a dress

and sent him off to bed,

told him, _“Don’t matter_

_your clothes, now— just rest_

_your head.”_

She couldn’t guess the trouble

he’d find in years to come—

she didn’t foresee the blood,

the tears, or the rum.

The horror and the havoc

from the boy she called her son.

Now, Ellie wasn’t smart,

but you’d never call him dumb.

He could set a snare trap,

load and shoot a gun.

Not that his pa had taught him,

or his ma even tried—

he was born with metal on his tongue

and a killer eye.

First it was a cat,

then a deer too good for food.

Then Ellie started hunting

anything he could shoot.

His ma soon realized

something wasn’t right.

She cleaned out the shed

and locked him in at night.

But it didn’t do much—

just sharpened his jaw.

By the time he stepped out,

he stood six feet tall—

and hell he’d saw.

The town folks knew

there was dark in that boy.

They hit him, mocked him,

played him like a toy.

He didn’t fit in,

not at church, not at school.

So he cried and he prayed—

and God answered cruel.

From the cat, to the deer,

to his own sweet ma—

next came the ghost

of his deadbeat pa.

He drove fifteen hours,

pulled up at a bar,

smell of burnt rubber

told him he’d come far.

Sat on a stool

next to a man dark as tar,

paid his tab,

then half-laughed and asked,

_“Ain’t you my dad?”_

And before the man could reply,

Ellie pulled his gun and let

two bullets fly.

The bar fell silent

as the body hit the wood.

Ellie fired once more,

just to make sure it stood.

Then he tipped back his glass,

murmured, _“Whiskey’s still good.”_

He had a few more drinks,

then left around four.

On his way driving home,

a cop pulled him over—

on a long stretch of road,

asked, _“What’s the hurry?_

_What’s that heavy load?”_

Ellie kept calm,

face pale in the sun.

He smiled, cracked a joke—

swore he didn’t have a gun.

The cop let him go,

called it barroom fun.

Figured it was nothing,

just another drunk with none.

So Ellie made it home,

grabbed a couple tools,

got back in the car—

headed straight for school.