Archive for » July, 2007 «

On Things That Go Bump in the Night
15
July
by TouchedByMadness

“The duck’s head is on fire.”

“What?” I mumbled into my pillow.

The ominous voice repeated (with a noticeable hint of irritation), “The duck’s head is on fire!“

“Then put it out!” I retorted, and once again wrapped myself in sweet repose.

My college roommate, in case you couldn’t tell, had the amusing habit of talking in her sleep. If nothing else, it made for some delightfully absurd conversation in the wee hours of the morning.

Due to this malady, I don’t recall bothering to acknowledge her with a response one night when she whispered, “There’s someone knocking at the window.”

After some time had passed, she said a little louder, “There’s someone knocking at the window.”

I may have grunted.

A short while later, she again hissed at me, “Stacey, there’s someone knocking at the window.”

Her voice betrayed genuine fear. I imagine that her eyes begged for comfort. She needed for me to believe her.

“No there’s not,” I said.

“I hear it,” she insisted (her bed was right under said window). “Someone keeps tapping.”

I then realized that she could not be sleep-talking because she was very much awake . . . and unfortunately, now so was I.

Had my mind not been clouded and lethargic, I would have told my roommate that in all likelihood, the tapping of the panes was no more than another student’s boyfriend throwing rocks at the building. Customarily, the gentlemen that visited in the middle of the night (hoping to be snuck in after hours) hit every window but their beloveds’. The coordination of these young men was so remarkably bad that I’m certain they had designated hitters bat for them in their tee-ball days.

But, as I said, the gears of my brain weren’t yet turning, (and, truth be told, I was rather cranky) so I offered a briefer argument. “We live on the third floor.”

This bit of logic seemed to allay her fears. She was quiet.

I snuggled deep into my covers and invited Sleep’s embrace.

My roommate lay soundlessly for awhile (in reality, it was a few seconds), still enveloped in a sense of horror. At dark o’thirty in the morning, all strange occurrences are eerily Poe-like and cannot be simply explained away. She listened and waited. The silence was nearly as maddening as the tapping.

She held her breath. Nothing.

And then it came. The knocking at the window.

It filled her with dread, enough to brave disturbing me again.

I heard her say in a tiny, uncertain voice, “I know we live on the third floor, but . . . it could be circus freaks.”

Category: College Tales, Memoir  Leave a Comment
A Cautionary Tale for Unruly Children
10
July
by TouchedByMadness

Women are vengeful creatures. This is a lesson I learned very early in life when I discovered that the most dangerous woman you shall ever know is your mother.

Perhaps at the beginning of time a bargain was struck with the Creator, and so, for woman’s vital role in the bringing forth of new life, she was bestowed with the Gift. Perhaps mothers, being sensitive and intuitive, have more developed psychic abilities. Or maybe motherhood simply cultivates an interest in voodoo. Whatever the source, I am quite certain that these women command a power that can only be described as the secular equivalent of godsmack. My own mother swells with this gift, as I learned one fateful day.

I was a wee peanut of a child at the time, sitting at the kitchen table. No, I’m sorry. Not sitting. Kneeling. That’s how the conflict began.

From the other end of the table, absorbed in her project, my mother said, “Sit on that chair the right way.”

I was surprised that she had acknowledged me. I briefly considered complying with her request, but she hadn’t even bothered to look up. I was quite comfortable the way I was, so I shifted back and forth a little to appease her (figuring she wouldn’t know the difference) and continued with what I was doing.

“I said sit on that chair the right way,” my mother repeated, glaring at me this time.

“But then I can’t reach good,” I complained. Who was I hurting by kneeling on the chair? What was this woman’s problem? I decided that she was being unreasonable, she was trying to start a fight, or both. I wasn’t a defiant child, but I choose in this moment to be stubborn.

“I’m only going to ask you one more time . . .”

I ignored her. Wait, did I hear something? No, no, I don’t think I did.

Now, I was a reasonably intelligent child, but I did not sense the disturbance in the atmosphere. Perhaps if I weren’t so confident that my mother didn’t know how to pick her battles, I might have felt the prickling of energy sparking around the room. This argument was clearly heading for a climax, but I didn’t see it coming.

And then I heard it. In an otherworldly voice she bellowed All. Three. Names. Suddenly my head snapped up, my eyes filled with terror. I was young, but well aware that my mother broke out our full names only when we were in a world of trouble. I realize now that as the syllables rolled off her tongue, she was invoking the Divine Power of Retribution. It was too late for apologies. I was about to be smote.

“Anastasia Lynn Willets! You sit yourself down in that chair the right way before you fall and smash the teeth out of your . . .”

She never finished the sentence. As soon as I heard my full name echo through the house, I hastily tried to adjust my position. But, having already been conjured, the Angel of Vengeance descended upon me and caused me to slip. I plunged forward, my face colliding into the table with a sickening crack.

I prematurely lost my two front teeth that day. Soaked in tears and blood, I learned what it meant to defy my mother.

Natural consequences, she called it. Natural consequences.

I spoke with a lisp for at least a year or two. You expect me to believe gravity was to blame?

Category: Blogging Is Cheaper Than Therapy, Fond Childhood Memories, Memoir  Leave a Comment