Don't Forget to Wash Your Hands

Posted by Kyle Jacobson , Saturday, August 28, 2010 3:06 PM

For this Sumptuous Saturday, I am going to attempt to write a Thriller! I'll probably use Saturdays to explore many different genres which will in turn assist my growth in satire. Be warned, to step out of one's comfort zone is generally regarded as a "bad idea" in most Asian and African cultures (not based off substantiated facts or truths of any kind.) So if you want a Kyle's-Style-of-Comedy piece, might I suggest something over on my "favorite posts" section, or just going back a couple of days.


  Thanks,

                 Kyle


 Please Comment and critique.


Don't Forget to Wash Your Hands.

         The bus broke down. My mom, Samantha, was out buying groceries at the time. I just walked seven miles to get home. Sweat is soaking my shoulders and sides and I am ready for a nap. School sucks. I have no friends.  I have never kissed a boy! My life is like what adults call a "recession." I have absolutely no idea what that means, but life sucks just as much as they think the recession sucks. I grew up with just my mom, Samantha. But Samantha works seven days a week at two different jobs; she refuses to tell me what those two jobs are. I sometimes see her come home really late at night; on those nights I am awake because of the nightmares, unable to sleep. The only memories I have of my dad are from when I was just a little girl, still wearing diapers and enjoying just about everything. The nightmares about my dad are from when he would come home late; that usually meant a lot of screaming and hitting. Not just my mom, sometimes me too.  I could show you the scars that are still there, but I don't see the point. What happened, happened. And my daddy's in prison. He'll be there for a long time. Samantha won't tell me why he's there. I sometimes guess why, but it doesn't help anything. He tried to call me a couple years back on my tenth birthday. I didn't know who he was. How could I? I didn't feel anything for him. No love. No compassion. I didn't want to talk to him, but he kept on apologizing and listing all the things we were going to do together once he got out.
         "Honey?"
         "In here, Samantha."
         "How was your day at school? I bought you some after-school snacks!"
         She obviously wasn't serious about the "How was school" question, so I'll drop it too.
          "What kinds?" I tried to show mild curiosity, but it's hard when you don't have much motivation for anything, let alone after-school snacks.
         The phone rang. And since Samantha has her own cell phone, it rarely rings.  I strained to hear at least one end of the conversation. Samantha had gotten very good at muffling the calls. I could only pick out a few words and sentences like, "early" and "how come nobody told me?" She seemed upset. Real upset. The phone rocked as she hung it up on the wall mount. Anger creeped into her creased brow. I wondered if she scrunched her face enough if it would disappear. It didn't. Her face looked drained, almost lifeless.
         "We're going to go on a long vacation, sweetie. Go pack your suitcases."
         I knew exactly what that meant. We were moving and we weren't ever coming back. I also knew that every time we moved something bad was going to happen. Even though I would rather die than move again, I trusted Samantha.
         "When are we going?"
         "Tomorrow. Make sure you pack your toothbrush this time." She tried to smile, but I could see the grief and fear beneath her willing, but tired eyes.
         After a night of deciding what to take and what to leave behind, I finally filled my suitcases. I was forced to leave behind almost all of my stuffed animals. It was about time I grew up. I'm going to be fourteen next month.
          Sleeping was extremely hard. Impossible, actually. 2 am passed as if time didn't exist at all. It wasn't until about 3:30 or 4 that time really began to drag on. I was bored out of my mind. I got up to get another drink of lemonade from the kitchen. The light from the fridge blinded me for a second. It was hard to get around in the dark. Even harder after looking into a bright light. I decided to go sit on the couch in the front entryway to enjoy my lemonade and think about all the things I'd miss from this place. The trees. The mountains. The streams. The flowers. I wonder if they'll have all those things where we're going. I learned a long time ago that it's best not to ask Samantha questions like these. I hope she'll be o--CRASH! The breaking of glass echoed through the house. Before I could realize what had happened, I felt a cold, firm hand squeezing my neck. I couldn't breathe. The hand was so solid and so tight. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I couldn't think. I scraped and clawed. I even think I drew blood, but the hand kept holding. My chest, it hurt so bad! I want to breathe! Please, let me breathe! I could feel glass cuts stinging the back of my neck from when the window shattered. The blood almost felt soothing to the sharp incisions. Everything was going dark, well darker than it already was. Before I blacked out I saw Samantha running from her room with a bat. She looked so frightened, so scared. The last word I heard Samantha say was "Jake!" That's my dad's name.


           I never did wake up again. I never did get to see if there were mountains in our new hometown. I never got to see what a first kiss felt like. I never did get to fall in love. I didn't even know what love was.
                                                     -Impressionistically,
                                                                                        Kyle


2 Response to "Don't Forget to Wash Your Hands"

by Cristy Hill Says:

I have to say that this just proves what a great writer you are. That you can write a story outside of your normal funny-zone...and not only that, but from a female teenager's point of view, and to know such intricacies of someone who is abused and neglected is amazing. I really like this Kyle. It reminds me of a dance I once saw about domestic abuse, and people in the audience were so upset about it because it made them feel uncomfortable. I believe that good "art" makes you uncomfortable because it is forcing you to deal with something that is ugly and reality. Sorry for my novel-length comment. You are a great writer. Enough said.

Kevin Says:

Well done, Kyle. :)

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