"Honey, where's the flashlight?" I heard an old man shout, pushing me back into the cubby hole I fit in.
Good. I hate the light. Except from my flashlight on the rare occasion.
I was free to enjoy my beautiful treasures I'd hidden in me in this wonderfully dark hole. Lightless. Quiet. Cozy. My kind of place. I marveled the round shapes of my round AAA batteries' outer layers, so smooth are the curves, yet so sharp are the edges. My stunning black rubber spider toy guarded my batteries like a watchdog, ready to pounce on the next person to try and grab them. As scary as he may have seemed, my spider jiggled when he moved. See? Jiggle...jiggle...jiggle.
I simply needed something better...something deadly...something...wait, I got it! My mouse trap. Mwah-ha-ha-ha! The next person to grab ahold of my beloved treasures would find the tips of their fingers snipped off. I'd been meaning to paint my abode. Red, I heard, was nice this time of year. Well...if I knew what this time of year was.
I mentally stroke my spider, my batteries, my mousetrap, my deck of cards, my flashlight, my screwdriver, my toy camera. All mine.
Mine. It's such a fabulous word, isn't it? It says so much and yet nothing at all. I love this word. It's so stunningly wonderful. A person could say this one word, and define a sentence of what they mean (granted, of course, with body movement).
Because of my parents’ unselfish upbringings, this word didn't enter my vast vocabulary until I had
entered the "loony bin." I'd prefer "mental hospital," but you catch my drift.
I was home-schooled by my parents along with my younger sister. Every day was "don't do this" and "never do that." It was nauseating. My sister never got that load of crap. But then, she was known as the "good child," while I was labeled "one bad egg" by everyone in my entire neighborhood. Good daughter, bad son.
Twenty years was far too long for that. Far, far too long. Every day, when I would steal my sister's favorite teddy bear, my father whipped out his favorite black leather belt, and I received ten whips against my backside. My mother would whip my hands with her crochet needles when I tied her different yarns together in knots. Even my sister would smack my head when I talked back to her.
Finally, I got revenge.
When my father went looking for his belt, he found it wrapped around his neck, squeezing his very last breath out of his alcohol-rotted throat. When my mother went looking for her crochet needles, she found one plunged into her right hand and the other in her screechy vocal chords. And my sister, well...she woke up to her hair tied to her bed rods, lying next to our parents' mutilated bodies.
The deafening screams of my sister soon morphed into the screams of police sirens, surrounding the
perimeters of my home. The first police officer to walk through the threshold found a young man of twenty, me, with a bucket of blood next to me as I dipped my fingers into it, and painted animals and flowers.
In my trial, my defense lawyer pleaded the insanity case, and I was sent to Aspen Springs Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
There, I learned of "mine."
My roommate, an old crack-head, whispered the word in his subconscious daze. Every day, whether I was awake or I was asleep, I was dazzled by this word.
The first time I spoke this word was when a stupid, moronic nurse tried to take a book I was reading away from me. She tried to use airy words and a whisper voice when trying to coax the volume from my fingertips. I grabbed the nearest table, breaking one of the legs out of the solid wood like I would a human leg, and used it to smash her skull to pieces, roaring, "MINE!" with each bash.
Grabbing her key to the outside world, book still in my possession, I walked through the front door, masking the spatter drops of blood from others around me. I am reminded of my sister as I heard the
familiar screams of sirens around me, fading from earshot as I faded into the streets.
I resorted to crime, like all wanted fugitives did. Stealing and pickpocketing were my favored things, though the occasional murder, which added red to my wardrobe and skin, suited my satisfaction nicely. Of course, the one time I let a person live, they send the police after me. I laughed at their audacity and their ego for thinking I wouldn't find them. The police found me first, sad to say. Twelve bullets sliced into my skin, ripping my flesh and organs until I was nothing but a slice of Swiss cheese.
The next time I woke up, I saw nothing but darkness and shadowed figures that I held. I felt square like, and wooden. It was...awkward. At first.
"Did you check the junk drawer?" the old, wrinkled voice of a woman croaked, grasping my handle
and sliding me out again. As her eyes peered inside, she eyes widen in fear, and I know why.
Among my other belongings, a pair of crochet needles, a black leather belt, a teddy bear and a picture of me were laid before her.
A wail erupted from her, and she disappeared from view, slamming me close.
She still remembered me. Her brother.
Okay, this was something done late at night as a project for my Creative Writing class. I decided to think outside the box and go outside my comfort zone. It will probably be just this, unless I manage to think of some random story for this. Anyway, I hope it wasn't...too bad. Comment on what you think.
