You do not realize some of the things you grew up with were abnormal until you look at them from somebody else's perspective. I thought my parents’ behaviour was normal until I left home. Only by being away from it and by talking to other people do I realize a few things were bizarre.
I recently became friends with Maiz. She is from “Albania.” For the purpose of privacy, it’s not really Albania, and Maiz and Ras Kabir are not their real names. Today, Maiz and I went for a walk at the Tuileries and had tea. We talked about our childhoods and bad romances. We both have some things in common - both of us had some bad experiences in each area. Recalling part of my childhood, I told her about something I had never talked about with anyone and that I had not realized was unusual.
The house was three stories high with four identical walls. The drab walls were corroded with black splotches and streaked with rusty drippings from the broken gutters. Where it came out of the wall, the sink drain added its own stain. The glass window panes resembled scum on water. Some windows were patched with plastic and cardboard.
The walls went up to the eaves with no molding or ornaments except for a collapsing balcony on the back wall. The white paint had mostly peeled off the gray boards. Three of the walls had a dirt-encrusted entrance surrounded by old furniture, heaps of firewood, rumpled boxes, stacks of newspapers, broken kitchen appliances, abandoned toys, and battered sports equipment. Several bent TV antennas were perched on the roof. This hovel spilled out poverty and misery through every orifice.
The back of the house was hanging drunkenly over a cesspit that was as deep as the house was high. Where a foundation should have been, the floor joists were held up by boards that had been sunk into the pond of sewage. Pipes hung under the house suspended several feet above the bottom of the pit. Some of the pipes ran from the house into an embankment on one side of the pit. Others were broken and dripped filth into the pond.
One time I had to pee late in the night. Nights are dark in the country. At that house, there were no streetlights outside and no night lights inside. I did not dare turn on any light. I would get in trouble if my parents knew I was awake this late.
My parents' bedroom was directly across from mine, and they never closed their bedroom door at night, not even during their nightly fights or quasi-rapes. Their light was off but they were swearing at each other. Their voices were muffled so they must have been in bed.
Down the hall, a door opened to the back upstairs porch, the one that was falling into the pit. So I opened that door and crept onto the balcony. I was greeted by the smell of the cesspit. The floor shook as I took each step, even though I was stepping as lightly as I knew how. I walked on tip-toe or toe-to-heel thinking I would tread lighter. I did not dare make a loud enough noise for my parents to hear. The floor was slick with dew that night, and it angled down toward the pit thirty feet below. I was barefoot. A rotting wooden railing ran around the porch. Boards were missing from both the railing and the porch in places. If I started to slide toward the edge, the railing would not be strong enough to stop me from falling.
I was not allowed to use the toilet in the house, and it was too risky to walk down the creaky stairs and urinate outside. So I made a game out of it pissing off the balcony. I peed as far into the pit I could direct my stream of urine. During the day, when the family pig Hillary Hog aka the First Lady was wallowing down there, I'd try to piss on her. She would squeal with delight and churn up the mud as she investigated the sudden shower. But she was asleep in the barn now. I finished and was about to go back in the house.
Suddenly, there was yelling and footsteps. The hallway light went on. I watched through a crack in the door. My father ran into the hallway naked. He always slept naked. He turned the corner and the side of his head was bleeding. His ear was dangling to his shoulder by a strip of skin. He ran outside, still naked, and drove away in his pickup truck. My mother never left their bedroom or made a sound. I crept back to my room, closed the door, and gave no sign that I saw anything.
The next day, my mother refused to speak, which was not unusual. She went weeks at a time without speaking. When I asked where his father was, she remained silent. Two days later, my mother had still not spoken, but the old man came home. His head was wrapped in bandages. He settled comfortably in his Lay-Z-Boy reclining chair, turned on the television, lit a mentholated Newport cigarette, and spoke only a few sentences: my mother had ripped off his ear, which I had already assumed. He had driven nearly an hour to the nearest hospital. Once there, pop singer Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon had sewn his ear back on. They continued living together the same as before as though nothing had happened. He never talked about it again except to say one thing, and he said it whenever got a chance: he had plastic surgery and it had been performed by pop singer Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon.
This entry is autobiographical, but I would like to turn it into a short story if that is possible. The ending is too abrupt and doesnùt make sense for it to be a short story. But when it happened; my mother ripping off my father's ear seemed as normal as getting up in the morning and eating breakfast. What could I add or change to make it work?
I recently became friends with Maiz. She is from “Albania.” For the purpose of privacy, it’s not really Albania, and Maiz and Ras Kabir are not their real names. Today, Maiz and I went for a walk at the Tuileries and had tea. We talked about our childhoods and bad romances. We both have some things in common - both of us had some bad experiences in each area. Recalling part of my childhood, I told her about something I had never talked about with anyone and that I had not realized was unusual.
The house was three stories high with four identical walls. The drab walls were corroded with black splotches and streaked with rusty drippings from the broken gutters. Where it came out of the wall, the sink drain added its own stain. The glass window panes resembled scum on water. Some windows were patched with plastic and cardboard.
The walls went up to the eaves with no molding or ornaments except for a collapsing balcony on the back wall. The white paint had mostly peeled off the gray boards. Three of the walls had a dirt-encrusted entrance surrounded by old furniture, heaps of firewood, rumpled boxes, stacks of newspapers, broken kitchen appliances, abandoned toys, and battered sports equipment. Several bent TV antennas were perched on the roof. This hovel spilled out poverty and misery through every orifice.
The back of the house was hanging drunkenly over a cesspit that was as deep as the house was high. Where a foundation should have been, the floor joists were held up by boards that had been sunk into the pond of sewage. Pipes hung under the house suspended several feet above the bottom of the pit. Some of the pipes ran from the house into an embankment on one side of the pit. Others were broken and dripped filth into the pond.
One time I had to pee late in the night. Nights are dark in the country. At that house, there were no streetlights outside and no night lights inside. I did not dare turn on any light. I would get in trouble if my parents knew I was awake this late.
My parents' bedroom was directly across from mine, and they never closed their bedroom door at night, not even during their nightly fights or quasi-rapes. Their light was off but they were swearing at each other. Their voices were muffled so they must have been in bed.
Down the hall, a door opened to the back upstairs porch, the one that was falling into the pit. So I opened that door and crept onto the balcony. I was greeted by the smell of the cesspit. The floor shook as I took each step, even though I was stepping as lightly as I knew how. I walked on tip-toe or toe-to-heel thinking I would tread lighter. I did not dare make a loud enough noise for my parents to hear. The floor was slick with dew that night, and it angled down toward the pit thirty feet below. I was barefoot. A rotting wooden railing ran around the porch. Boards were missing from both the railing and the porch in places. If I started to slide toward the edge, the railing would not be strong enough to stop me from falling.
I was not allowed to use the toilet in the house, and it was too risky to walk down the creaky stairs and urinate outside. So I made a game out of it pissing off the balcony. I peed as far into the pit I could direct my stream of urine. During the day, when the family pig Hillary Hog aka the First Lady was wallowing down there, I'd try to piss on her. She would squeal with delight and churn up the mud as she investigated the sudden shower. But she was asleep in the barn now. I finished and was about to go back in the house.
Suddenly, there was yelling and footsteps. The hallway light went on. I watched through a crack in the door. My father ran into the hallway naked. He always slept naked. He turned the corner and the side of his head was bleeding. His ear was dangling to his shoulder by a strip of skin. He ran outside, still naked, and drove away in his pickup truck. My mother never left their bedroom or made a sound. I crept back to my room, closed the door, and gave no sign that I saw anything.
The next day, my mother refused to speak, which was not unusual. She went weeks at a time without speaking. When I asked where his father was, she remained silent. Two days later, my mother had still not spoken, but the old man came home. His head was wrapped in bandages. He settled comfortably in his Lay-Z-Boy reclining chair, turned on the television, lit a mentholated Newport cigarette, and spoke only a few sentences: my mother had ripped off his ear, which I had already assumed. He had driven nearly an hour to the nearest hospital. Once there, pop singer Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon had sewn his ear back on. They continued living together the same as before as though nothing had happened. He never talked about it again except to say one thing, and he said it whenever got a chance: he had plastic surgery and it had been performed by pop singer Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon.
This entry is autobiographical, but I would like to turn it into a short story if that is possible. The ending is too abrupt and doesnùt make sense for it to be a short story. But when it happened; my mother ripping off my father's ear seemed as normal as getting up in the morning and eating breakfast. What could I add or change to make it work?