An unhelping hand (SS - Part IV)

This is Part IV to my Sunday Scribblings story. Again, if you have comments, whether about this piece, or about the story in general, please feel free to pass them along. This week's phrase is Where in the World.

I asked for help once. It occurred shortly before I was stripped of the semblance of normalcy that was my life. I was nine.

She was tall and sickeningly gaunt. And while she did not talk much, when she did, the words were always worth the effort it took to hear them. By the time I realized what was happening—that her days were not to be many—she was past the point of saving by human intervention. In a desperate and misguided attempt to give her will, I got on my knees, turned to the crumbling stucco ceiling, and promised, amongst other things, to be a better son, which meant that I would clean up after myself, as had been begged of me for years, to not play with my food, to stop having bad thoughts about the neighbor's daughter, and to grow up and be a man; all I asked in return was for her life.

I tripped onto her body the next morning.

During the ride to the hospital, I could not help but wonder where in the world was he when we needed him most, and why did he not care. I never relied on another again.

A drop in the bucket (SS- Part III)

This is Part III to my Sunday Scribblings story (a couple of days late). This week's phrase was The Plan.

Light of day was the hardest, for it was during the brightness that I had to guard myself from his violent and oppressive ways. Hence, while I spent those moments wishing the the sun away, I reserved the blanket of nightly darkness for myself. I knew that if I made it through his waking hours, his downtime would set me free, albeit briefly. . . .

As one can imagine, I did not have ambitions, at least not in the traditional sense, as there was nothing for me to aspire to. Nonetheless, I was not without goals. For example, there was always the plan, carefully crafted and painstakingly mapped out. It was simple, beautifully sadistic, and involved nothing more than him having a night with the bottle, a vaulted ceiling with unencumbered crossbeams, a fifteen foot piece of rope, a razor blade, a two gallon bucket, and access to the posterior tibial artery. In all, if executed to perfection, I could be done, and so would he, in less time than it took to watch an episode of the Simpsons.

"Justice" for all (SS - Part II)

I have decided to write a very short story over the next few weeks, changing it as it goes depending on the word of the week (I do not have an ultimate outcome in mind, but will play with it each week to see where it takes me). As such, this is a continuation of last week’s Sunday Scribblings (human). Let me know what you think and if you have suggestions along the way.

Indulgence

At this stage, it seems pointless to place blame, but if forced, it would fall in this order: the man who provided one-half of my genetic material, the courts for allowing it to happen, and to myself for not stopping the cycle.

I was a mistake, as I was able to perceive from an early age, and driven home by those in my life. He was drunk, she was (as decided by the jury) willing, and I became the choker chain of life dangling forever from his neck. “Justice”, being what it is, ensured that upon the expiration of the woman from whom I emerged, I was consigned to the signatory on the $137.36 court ordered bi-weekly support check. From the moment of my arrival, his favorite indulgence was forbidding every one of mine.

Sunday Scribblings

This week's word is Human:

The inscription was direct and to the point: “If to err is human, then human he undoubtedly was.”