Member-only story
Murder, Sex and a Stabbing, all by the Age of Ten
Not necessarily in that order.
When I was ten, my family moved into a house where a murder/suicide had recently taken place.
It was spring. I was the new kid for the third time that year, April Fools’ Day was my first day of school. I stood on the sidewalk in front of the unfamiliar looming new house, crying. I did not want to walk the mile to the brand new school to sit at a desk surrounded by yet another room full of strange small people masquerading as children. My left hand tenderly cradled my left butt cheek. My younger brother had stabbed me several days earlier. He had been inside an empty cardboard wardrobe box. I sat on top of the empty cardboard wardrobe box. He didn’t like my choice, so he made a choice and stabbed me. An inch in a different direction and the doctor would not have needed to cut me to help my son into the world 20 years later.
Sitting inside an egg-shaped bubble of invisibility I watched the room full of giggling 10 year-olds jostling around in their attempts to write on the chalkboard at the same time. The goal was to write their names backwards for the teacher’s benefit. Clever — or not. It was April Fool’s Day. And I really wasn’t invisible. I was the new kid, I was HUGELY visible. EVERYONE could see me. My butt hurt…
