Childhood Memories
Chapter one.
"Okay Ladies and Gents, for homework you must write an essay on your most prominent childhood memories. I expect it on my desk by Monday!"
The teacher walked away from the podium and began to clear things off her desk. My mind you racing and I was sweating. Childhood memories? I couldn't do an essay of childhood memories! Everyone would thing I was a head case!
I packed my stuff and walked away slowly, thinking. I mean, I could always lie. I could do the whole 'normal childhood' thing. I was pretty good at making up stories, no one would know the difference. Except me. I would know. No, I couldn't do that. I would have to tell the truth.
I pulled my bike away from the rack and cycled home subconsciously. As soon as I got in I started the essay. I wanted this piece of crap out of the way.
I sat with the blank piece of paper in front of me, tapping my pen on its pristine surface. What were my most predominant childhood memories? The year I went to school on speed? Waking up in hospital after having my stomach pumped? Coming home every day to my dad shooting, snorting or smoking?
I sighed, and put my pen to the paper. My sloping handwriting marring the white page. Now that I had begun writing the words flowed smoothly from my mind, via the pen, to the page.
I told the story, my story, of my mum's funeral. She had overdosed on some of my dad's 'happy pills' washed down with alcohol. Luckily I was staying at a friends house that night and my dad found her. I was eleven.
I remember the dress I wore, it was black velvet, shapeless. Just how I felt. I remember the ceremony being really long, the grey-haired, balding priest droning on and on forever. It was closed-coffin. My dad wanted my to remember her like she was before. What? As a drunken druggie? I remember my dad crying, but I didn't cry.
When I finished I realized that the essay was too short. I wondered what else I could write about. I thought for a while and decided to lighten the mood a bit and talk about my granny.
She was an amazing woman, she was so sweet and kind. I loved her house, she always made me some sort of cake whenever I was over. And best of all her house was always clean, unlike mine. I ran away to her countless times.
I didn't know how to end the essay, so I just wrote
The End
The teacher walked away from the podium and began to clear things off her desk. My mind you racing and I was sweating. Childhood memories? I couldn't do an essay of childhood memories! Everyone would thing I was a head case!
I packed my stuff and walked away slowly, thinking. I mean, I could always lie. I could do the whole 'normal childhood' thing. I was pretty good at making up stories, no one would know the difference. Except me. I would know. No, I couldn't do that. I would have to tell the truth.
I pulled my bike away from the rack and cycled home subconsciously. As soon as I got in I started the essay. I wanted this piece of crap out of the way.
I sat with the blank piece of paper in front of me, tapping my pen on its pristine surface. What were my most predominant childhood memories? The year I went to school on speed? Waking up in hospital after having my stomach pumped? Coming home every day to my dad shooting, snorting or smoking?
I sighed, and put my pen to the paper. My sloping handwriting marring the white page. Now that I had begun writing the words flowed smoothly from my mind, via the pen, to the page.
I told the story, my story, of my mum's funeral. She had overdosed on some of my dad's 'happy pills' washed down with alcohol. Luckily I was staying at a friends house that night and my dad found her. I was eleven.
I remember the dress I wore, it was black velvet, shapeless. Just how I felt. I remember the ceremony being really long, the grey-haired, balding priest droning on and on forever. It was closed-coffin. My dad wanted my to remember her like she was before. What? As a drunken druggie? I remember my dad crying, but I didn't cry.
When I finished I realized that the essay was too short. I wondered what else I could write about. I thought for a while and decided to lighten the mood a bit and talk about my granny.
She was an amazing woman, she was so sweet and kind. I loved her house, she always made me some sort of cake whenever I was over. And best of all her house was always clean, unlike mine. I ran away to her countless times.
I didn't know how to end the essay, so I just wrote
The End