Random muses and prompts

childhood memories

     I was in a classroom, in first grade. I was taking a math test. It didn't make sense. Everyone finished and went outside for recess. I sat there, struggling to put the numbers on the paper together. The teacher leaned over me, imposing another layer of distraction to my weary mind.

     The lights were dim, and the only light on was the one above me. I heard my classmates cheering behind me, through the window. I wanted to write random numbers on the page and fail it--but Mrs was right behind me.

     I finished, but I did not have a recess. I got an A+, but I was mocked for being slow.

     We moved some time later. I did not know why I never saw Dad, or why we suddenly left home. We rented the little tan house. It was a lowly thing, as my mother said. She said it was a place for "white trash," so maybe that's what I was. It was a good place. My best friend and I loved it there. There was a tunnel between my room and Mom's through the closet. I hid all my things she'd take in there, because it was small and she could not reach it. 

     There was a lovely black walnut tree in the backyard, and the nuts got so big it was unsafe to stand under it during certain times of the year, for fear of a concussion. Me and my friend would wear baskets on our heads while running around the tree. I don't know if we ever did catch one that way. Behind the house and the tree, there was a fence. There was a few horses that lived there. I liked giving them treats. They were nice horses.

    Our neighbors dog once killed a mole in our yard. I was fascinated by it--not the murder of course, but the dedication this dog decided a mole deserved. I liked giving the dog treats, although I cannot remember his name. The treats smelled awful, and so did he, but that made them a good combo, he and the treats.

    There was a creek in front of the house. I loved it so much. The water was so pure and it so cleanly ran across the clay deposits. It was only ankle deep there, but about a hundred yards to the east it grew about calf deep. I would try to catch minnows there. I could watch the road as I sat in the creek. Cars would go by, and I'd imagine that I was not really a human, but a big bullfrog. 

     On days my mother was at work and I was home alone, almost eight years old, I'd stumble into the creek and sit in that calf deep spot, and I'd rub clay into my face. I would disappear into the earth.

    Dad never came home those days. He was still in Florida. I didn't see him for two years. I don't think I ever thought of him at all, or missed him. He was rarely present in my life in the first place, not having him was like getting a paper cut--you never notice it until you put pressure on it.

    My friend was homeschooled almost her whole life, so she spent good times with me. One day, I yelled at her to go back into the house and hide. She did, thinking I'd go home too. There was a thunderstorm brewing. I watched the violence roll above me, and I was not scared. I am, after all, a bullfrog. 

    Lighting struck a tree near me, close enough that I felt the ground shake and heard the exploding sizzle which continued for some time after the strike. This scared me, but did not spur me to hide. I was only eight. Eight year olds do not know how to exist in the wild. That's where I was, in the creek across from the house, twenty feet from humanity, yet in the wild.

    I sat outside through the six hour storm, until just before Mom returned from work. The creek grew too dangerous for me to remain in after some time, as branches began dragging down the ever-faster moving creek. I heard a tree fall. I think it was on a house.

     I was soaking wet, shivering, and yet I wanted to remain there. But alas, the storm became a harmless drizzle, and so I returned to the house. A neighbor saw me standing in the storm, unafraid, and a rumor spread that I was mentally ill. I was rather unbothered by it.

     When we moved out, I did not have high hopes. There was a house we looked at, and when we peeked inside, a huge wasp nest fell to the ground, and the horde erupted from it. I began running, my flip flops quickly fell away from me, and I dove into the river at least ninety feet from the house. The water was not like the creek, and it was strong. I, although nine at the time, was strong too. They were worried for me, until I emerged victorious, unstung (unlike the rest of my family and the realtors) and soaking wet.

     Another time, I was at summer camp, and we were wading in a creek. I was in sixth grade. The Catholic girl, Grace, was drawing on people with clay stones. I recall her refusing to draw on me. I wondered if she didn't like me. Now I knew she was scared of how she felt about me--she already knew who she'd marry. Her parents arranged it. I think she was scared of liking girls. I can see why, I felt the same at the time.

     The water in that creek was clear, but not cool like the one by the little tan house. I loved wading in it. Perhaps I'll wade in creeks again.

     Blood. A girl was being beaten. I watched. The boys were brutal creatures in elementary school. I placed my hand in my pocket, where my weapon was. Yes, they were brutal, but I could draw more blood than fists or nails could. Scissors were reliable.

     When they turned to me later on, I was bigger and heavier than them, and they learned that if violence was the only option, I was very good at it. I didn't like it though. They targeted me in other ways.

     On the bus, in fourth grade, a sixth grader showed me a song. "I don't like it. It is dark," I told her, and the seed had taken root. How dare you, girl, for corrupting a child and making them abusive. Most of the blood spilled thereon was my own, and no one but me knew about it. How dare you, Riley, for showing me what suicide is. I am not the same person because of you. I am worse. You darkened me and I am not afraid to wish harm on you in the way you hurt me. 

     Bastard.

     Dad described the violent death of the pregnant cat we cared for. I stared at him in horror. The neighbor's dog got loose--blood everywhere--tree stained red--WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME?

     Breaking news: Girl Found Dead Near Garden City--Three Teens Suspected of Kidnapping Two Children--Two Teens Fatally Overdose in the Bathroom--Boy Brings Gun to School--Principal Found Having an Affair with a Teacher from Another School.

     The teacher pushed me into the confession booth. I am not Catholic, I said. Do it anyways, she insists. I cannot muster the ritualistic words through my mouth. The priest seems understanding.

    I try to tell him that I like girls, is that bad? Am I a bad person, Father?

    He says it is a sin, a crime, an abomination, and I will find the right man, and that I should be patient.

     I am not patient, and I do not like feeling hated by the only being meant to love me. I decided to find him myself, and soon. A twelve year old is a stupid creature, and that priest is even worse for leading the twelve year old astray as he did.

     I closed my eyes. This was my choice, I thought. 

     I think that is when my childhood ended.

     "You are nothing like what I wanted in a daughter."

     That's okay, Mom. I don't need you to want me anymore.