Don't kill me
A short story I had to write. Actually, I wrote it on 9/12/07. There are separations between paragraphs, because it's easier to read here on a forum.
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Once, someone called me crazy. The next day, they returned home to find that their dog was seriously hurt. Guess who got the last laugh. It’s not like I killed the thing, I just hurt it…a little. You should’ve seen it with its mini neck-brace; it was hilarious. I couldn’t stop laughing.
Later on in my life I had noticed a pattern: other people were also calling me crazy. Yeah, I know, I didn’t believe them either. Nevertheless, it’s been ten years after the infamous dog incident, and here I am, committed in an asylum. In fact, if you have some time, I’ll tell you about how I ended up in here.
It happened years ago, in a land far away…right in the next town, actually. I was looking for a present for my mother’s birthday. I was driving and out of the blue, rain began to pound down hard and the glass fogged up. My vision was impaired, causing me to drive off the main road. I stumbled upon a chain of small markets and boutiques.
“Key chains! Get your key chains or any other souvenir over here, sir,” most of them beckoned. There was only one boutique that interested me, though. I’m sure that it would catch anyone’s attention: it was olive green with pink borders and purple rhinestones embedded in a symmetric pattern. Is this the sixties again? I asked myself. I walked over to it slowly as if it were Buddha, or Allah, or some type of great god.
I was mesmerized. It was beautiful, so enchanting. I was attracted to it like a moth to a flame.
“Sir, do you have anything I would be able to give to my mother?” I asked.
The rest of our conversation isn’t important. What is important is when I got to my mother’s home. I walked up the stairs to her room and sat down right in front of her.
“Look, momma. Look what I’ve brought you,” I told her, handing her present over.
“Why’d you get me this worthless piece of junk?” she asked.
“I thought you’d like it, it’s kind of like that figurine I broke when I was nine,” I explained to her.
“Yeah, and what am I going to do with it now?” she asked. “I’m just and old lady in a wheel chair with a worthless, pathetic son right in front of her.” Mom had always acted this way with me -- she had four sons, but I was the only one she ridiculed. I never knew why, but I always knew that I didn’t want to live like this. I wanted to get out; I wanted to get away from her and all of it. It was as annoying as a mosquito bite at the peak of your knuckle. This little itch had grown over the many years and I was ready for the itch to be scratched and for me to be satisfied.
“Good, take me into the kitchen. I’m hungry!” she screamed.
I intended to do just that, I remember. I grabbed her wheel chair and pulled her out into the hallway. However, I leaned over and saw the stairs. I saw the light at the end of this red and dark tunnel. I headed at full speed to the stairs, and for a millisecond, I thought about stopping, I thought about turning back and telling her I was just kidding…but I hated her. I hated the way she looked, the way she used to dress, the way her hair smelled like her Purple Violet shampoo. So, I didn’t stop. I didn’t.
She fell down, screaming at such a high pitch, I could’ve sworn I heard dogs barking. After about five seconds there was a crunch sound. It was her wheel chair, crushing her fragile bones like a foot would do to a hopeless cockroach.
I ran down to her, and no: I didn’t regret it. I did tear, it was so sad. She was as white as a skeleton on a black canvas. I should’ve at least let her put her face on. Her skin was as soft as a polishing cloth. I glanced at her earrings; she had won those egg-like hideous things at our Church Easter Fair back when I was a kid. Oh, and her bracelet, the one she received as a Valentine gift from one of her husbands or boyfriends -- who’s to know?
There was nothing. There was no movement. Just me and my mother’s corpse lying helplessly on the floor as the wheel chair continued to crush her bones.
Life after that was a blur. That is the story that had me thrown in here, though. However, I promise you this: I will get out of here. I will!
The nurse looked at him confused.
“Dave, did you forget to take your blue pills again?” she asked him. “Hurry up, and take ‘em,” she said. She walked over to him and shoved some of the blue pills she had on her down his throat. Afterwards, she walked right out of the room and began to talk to another nurse. “It’s so sad..”
“Oh, Dave? Who did he say he killed this time?” he asked.
“His mother.”
“This week it’s his mother, last week his dad. What’s it going to be next week? If only he would remember they come everyday to see him,” he said.
