Jan 16 2013
My Parents Are Trying To Kill Me
As far back as I can remember my parents had always assured me that they weren't trying to kill me, but every time I trusted them, they cut off part of my body.
When I was young, for some reason which I can't explain I thought there was treasure buried in my room. So I started throwing clothes against the wall in a desperate search to find it first. When I had finally hit the floor, I poured a disappointed gaze into the worn down carpet and realized something that would change my life forever. I needed a shovel. Unable to find one I began to beat through the carpeting into the cheap boards below with a large maul I found in the back of our shed. Alas, glittering lights sparkled before me. Unfortunately they were those of the television in the basement. I wasn't rich, just grounded for a month while healing several fractured bones and drawing pictures of horses that looked like trees to sell to various old people at the elderly home to pay for vet bill. Not mine of course, my cat Barney's, who was never quite able to scale the kitchen table again.
I never really had anything against stuffed animals, except for this one particular fuzzy monster without a name. Framed as a "loving" gift from my parents, he stared at me every night from across the room, a heartless assassin with my name at the top of his list. He took pleasure in making me sweat with that maniacal grin and those evil soul-penetrating eyes. Bear maybe, or elephant... Thinking about it only frightened me more and more to the point I couldn't bear the anticipation another moment. I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the biggest, longest and sharpest knife I could find. After 58 stab wounds I assumed it was dead but there was no way to tell for sure. Piece by piece I chopped off the horrendous beast's members and threw them into a blender. At last, a night's rest. Or so I thought. I could hear the stuffing and chopped hairs reconnecting to form a bigger more evil monster with fruit and vegetable-like attributes. He would be the perfect killer. I grabbed a can of hair spray as I ran into the kitchen to destroy it once and for all. A grilling lighter in one hand and hairspray can in the other, I lit the stream of toxic spray on fire with my finger glued to the trigger as I melted every hair deep into the floor. My mother had to restrain me as I went after the blender - the breeding nest of the beast. I was safe... for now.
"Why don't I have a brother?" I asked at the dinner table. "Just eat your potatoes," my mother ordered. I looked at Dad, but he didn't seem to care. Returning to my potatoes I noticed some green residue mixed in the cheese. "What's this?" I asked as I held a strand up with my fork. "Goodness, just eat it Charlie!" She hammered. "It's poison," scoffed my dad. Well, that's not exactly what he said, but I could see it in his eyes. I slowly lowered the sample down to give my cat Barney a taste when my mother sharply informed me that Barney was "lactose intolerant." "Oh, but you don't mind if I die!?" I flipped the plate off the table and ran to my room. I sure was hungry that night. But at least I was alive.
The next day, as I walked outside by the garage door, I noticed it was open. I then heard my Dad call from inside, "Hey, come in here son." I cautiously edged closer, inspecting the scene. It was dark in there but I saw him working on some contraption. "Come here Boy, I got something for you," he assured. I walked though the car entrance and stopped a few feet away from him. "Now your mom and I have been talking this over and we've decided that - " As my vision adapted to the darkness I noticed a huge grin on his face and then I saw it. A big brick laid on the table beside some mean looking rope. That's when I remembered hearing my mom say something about 'tying a brick to my head to stop the growing.' In situations like this, one thinks quickly. I realized he was reaching for something on the table and saw an opening to escape. My instinct was to go for the bike and peddle, peddle like the wind, and never look back. Sadly, I did and quickly wiped out on the sidewalk tumbling to the street curb in a confused scratched-up jumble. Before I could orient myself and escape on foot I felt his big hairy hand grab my arm. "No! I'm too young!" I bellowed. He asked, "Are you okay, Boy? Look what we've got for you!" I knew God was on my side after seeing a bike standing under my dad's other hand. It wasn't my old bike, it was a new one with shiny rims, three speeds, spoke beads, and an oversized basket. I wiped some of the blood off my face and screamed "Nice try, Dad!" I hopped on my new escape vehicle, ditched that place, and never returned. Well, at least not until suppertime.
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