Life at 18 Part II
This is a “scene” I wrote for class that revealed some personal experience:
Finally, it’s 12pm. The brutal king of the sky temporarily relinquishes his power over me. Unfortunately, freedom is not a consequence of this action. Instead, the reigns are turned over to another elevated beast. I call it “bitch”; the rest of the world politely calls it “step-mom.”
I unlock the newly cleaned, pink garage door. I know it is newly cleaned because I was forced to clean it – six times! In front of me, resides a shiny, white ’95 Chevy Camaro. Trust me, it’s shiny, I washed and waxed it twice this week for my unappreciative master. Before I dare step on the royal, red carpet, I mechanically remove my shoes and socks and place them beside the family’s shoe rack.
As I turn the doorknob of fire, I know there will be no surprises inside. I enter. As I walk in, I turn and stare at the heartless woman. My stares fail to trigger a movement out of her. Her eyes are in horizontal unison with the screen TV. Slowly, I inch my way further inside, careful not to disturb her bliss. My stomach growls of hunger, but no satisfying meal awaits.
I plop my body on my designated stool at the nearest end of the kitchen counter. The usual bologna sandwich and imitation Kool-Aid sit in front of me. After sweating outside in the 98-degree sun, I grasp my drink. Expecting a cherry-sweet flavor, I am disgusted to taste nothing more than water with food coloring. Not only is it tasteless but it has turned lukewarm from sitting there for however long it has. So, next I resort to taking a bite out of my bologna sandwich. The crust of the bread crunches in my mouth. I want to spit it out but I know that this will be all that I can eat until my TV dinner at 4 p.m. As I slowly crunch on my sandwich, the wretched woman, obviously finished loading her slingshot, fires her first stone at me.
“Hurry up and finish that sandwich, you retard!”
“Just shut up and eat!”
I finally finished a meal only a starving Ethiopian could love and proceed to throw the paper plate away. I place my 4-ounce glass into the sink and head back around the counter toward the door. I know to walk quickly to avoid another direct hit but this time she was ready.
“Did you touch my cookies I had in the fridge?”
“… Yeah, sorry.”
“You leave the stuff in the fridge alone! Those were for your father. The next time you take something from in there without asking, you’ll be grounded for a week. Got it?”
“Yeah, whatever. See ya.”
I slam the door. She drives me crazy. At least I am away from her now.
Suddenly, the door opens, “Don’t you slam that door again! Wait ‘til your father hears about this buddy.”
She closes the door. I put my socks and shoes back on — another fun-filled and nourishing lunch gone by. I can’t wait to get a car so I can get the hell out of here. I tie my shoes as slow as possible making sure I waste every second I can. I am certainly not looking forward to going back outside. It’s hard to keep friends when you are constantly bugging them. They always ask why they can’t come here. I tell them, “so you can live.”