This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ByfelsDisciple on 2023-07-06 11:17:22+00:00.
Yes, I’m a shitty dad.
We’re dealing with questions that no previous generation has had to handle. What’s the right age to let a kid have a cell phone? When can they start using Facebook? How old should they be before I explain what Facebook is, and how it differs from the InstantGram?
“Dad, I’m eleven. I should be able to have unsupervised sleepovers.”
“Are any of your friends going to bring their smartphones or tablets?”
The eyeroll. Always with the eyeroll. I used to feel powerless against my parents when I was young, never realizing how much I must have shaken their cores with just the right gesture or words.
“Yes to cell phones. But we’re not using tablets or carts pulled by donkeys or whatever else you used back in 2010, Dad.”
See? How the hell am I supposed to respond to that kind of shit? I know he gets the attitude from his mother, because I’d have used it right back against him if that’s how my brain worked.
Yes, I’m a shitty dad, because I’m a human being, which is just the worst kind of person.
Which is exactly why I didn’t trust the 11- to 13-year-old crowd that my son invited over, and exactly why I was terrible enough to turn technology against him.
Yes, I hooked up a camera to watch what they were doing in the basement.
I think I wish I hadn’t.
I couldn’t figure out how to enable the audio, which made the whole silent experience so much more surreal. The first hour was pretty boring, though: video games, one kid who would only eat the pizza crust and not the actual pizza (what the fuck, junior) and three fights that sat just below the threshold of convincing me that I needed to blow my cover and intervene.
Maybe I should have jumped in.
I don’t know. Kids get pissed at their parents because of their frustration from knowing they’ve crafted a detailed plan for the kid’s life without permission or consent. That’s because kids are too dumb to realize that parents are too dumb to know what they’re doing and are just making things up as they go along. Evolution doesn’t favor the greatest of us; it simply preserves those most likely to fuck before dying early.
I cite that as the reason I spent my Friday night watching my preteen on a baby monitor.
I had nearly stopped out of shame when they surrounded Reverse Pizza Kid. A chill crept up my neck; this wasn’t like the time they played the ridiculous “punch me in the arm” game. This was sinister.
Even through the silent footage, I could feel the kid’s sudden fear.
He realized too late that he was in danger. By then, the other four older boys (including my son) had surrounded him. He couldn’t escape in any direction.
For a moment, they just talked. My heart rate climbed steadily as I tried to guess what they were saying. I could tell that RPK was hoping the same thing as me: that these kids would quickly stop and get back to doing whatever their semi-developed brains thought was a good idea at the time.
But they didn’t back away.
They got closer.
I stopped breathing as they moved in. I didn’t want to believe that my son was capable of such cruelty – but his face flashed across the screen for just a moment, and I saw pure glee.
I still didn’t breathe.
Within seconds, they had the smaller boy wrapped in a rug. They pinched off each end before all four sat on him.
I waited for the joke to end.
The joke didn’t end.
The lumpy rug twitched fruitlessly as the boy slowly succumbed to claustrophobic suffocation. How long was I supposed to wait before barging in and revealing that I had been watching them? I kept telling myself that they’d release him after a few more seconds. Just a little longer.
Right?
The rug hadn’t moved for ten full seconds before I knew it was time.
Getting from my second-floor bedroom down to the basement took nearly thirty seconds, and my pounding footsteps left no ambiguity about my approach. But I couldn’t slow my pace: I’d already waited too long. I tried to think of what I would do upon entering the basement, but the answer was the same that it always had been:
I’d make something up in the moment.
Every face turned toward me as I burst open the door.
“What do you want, Dad?”
I stared down at them, panting. Each one faced the TV.
All four of them.
“Where’s, ah…” I trailed off.
They stared at me blankly.
“Do you… need anything?”
I stared at them blankly.
I closed the door and went upstairs.
What the fuck was I supposed to do? Ask if they murdered their friend? I thought about it for nineteen minutes and thirteen seconds. Deep down, I knew I wasn’t going to do anything about it, because there was nothing to be done.
Timing my dilemma assuaged enough of the guilt so that I could go to bed.
I know.
I’m terrible.
*
I awoke early the next morning so that I could make breakfast for them. I was hoping to seem relatable enough to get my son to talk with me. I made pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns, oatmeal, waffles, and fruit in the hopes that they would engage with me.
They ate in silence.
All four of them.
“Hey, guys, is your… friend still sleeping?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“You mean Oliver?” my son responded as he chewed.
“Yeah,” I answered, washing my hands to hide the shaking. “How come he didn’t come upstairs with the rest of you?”
“He went home early this morning. He wasn’t feeling good.”
“Oh.”
They brought their dishes to the sink. All four thanked me politely before returning downstairs.
By noon, the other three kids had been picked up and taken home.
I had given my number to each of the kids’ parents as they dropped them off. Ten minutes ago, I got a call from an unknown number in my area code. I didn’t pick it up.
The number just called twice more, followed by another anonymous person in my area code. I don’t know what to do.
I feel like I’m making this up as I go along.
Because my kid can’t be evil. Right?
He’s my son.
And I’m not evil.
But I am a terrible person.