Going to give another Flash Fiction Challenge at TerribleMinds another try. Due by next Friday (the 13th) so I've got some time. You should all head over there and try it out as well! This challenge's subject is "a modernized fairy tale".
Friday Pt. VI
I have always tended to say things that I know my mother doesn't find amusing whatsoever. There was always that yearning to piss her off growing up. Mind you, she was far too protective of me, and yes yes, I am sure everyone out there is saying, "Of course he thinks that, he was a child for Christs' sake, what the hell did he know? Or even know now?!" Well, I have allowed my self to grow up slightly and I still believe to this day that I was grounded far too often for the things that I was doing. And the sad part was, those things that I had been getting grounded for practically every weekend, almost never happened outside of our home. Our house that I grew up in was built in the 30's on a 5 acre plot of land. Step off the front porch and I had a small forest to my left, a huge field to my right and a creek behind the house itself. I truly loved it out there. But I had to, since I was stuck there about 80% of my childhood. Just an insight, my mother was just a tad unbalanced, later realizing the error of not seeking help sooner than later. In fact, didn't seek help until after my parents had divorced and she was the lowest I had ever seen her. Bipolar disorder, something my dad saw coming a long time ago, but whenever he tried to bring it up to her she would get so angry, denying the fact, blaming her sadness on the fact that he works all the time to feed his family. I've brought up the fact that I was stuck in the house way too often, how she could have loosened up her talons on my back and just let me fucking fly sometimes, but I can tell it makes her sad. I don't bring that up anymore.
And when I finally did get out from under her watch, I move to Seattle and start selling cocaine and ecstasy, supplying the crowds and my own self. Did I miss something here? Could it have been that she kept me from doing these things early on, or did I do them because I was so sheltered growing up? I am still trying to figure that one out.
Now that we have gotten past the point of her talking about how sickly I look, we can finally have a normal conversation. I tell her about my current job status while sipping on my glass of Pabst, stepping outside every now and then to have a cigarette, more often now than then. Chain smoking is a lovely habit while drinking. Beer is practically nothing without nicotine. In fact, I wish I had a huge bowl of grass right about now. Haven't smoked the stuff in two weeks, trying to clean myself up for a future position on a private yacht.
Nico, my sister, comes down stairs. Long brown hair and a super lanky body like mine. Tent poles for legs and equipped with two skinny, gorilla arms. She is excited to see me nowadays, which is a massive relief. Tormenting her was my forte growing up, her hate of me fueling her desire to move on. Let me give you a taste of what I did to her that I still can't believe I did:
Somehow coax Nico into a large dog kennel cage.
Drop stinging nettle leaves from above all over her.
Let her out as she yells in itchy, stingy pain.
God damn that's fucked up.
Thank God she started smoking weed because we probably never would have grown close. I very much like our relationship these days and Nico, I am sorry for what I had done to you in the past. Young assholes do stupid things and I wish you would have just punched me in the damn face. Now that I think of it, you did clock me in the jaw once, but that was an accident.