It seems to be an endless read, including the comments.
Nan, I was told, had stood on a chair in the kitchen, to change a light bulb, and the chair collapsed underneath her, resulting in a broken hip, which led to her death. I wonder, if Deb set that 'accident' up. The timing of it was shortly after Nan had begun to pay me some positive attention. There's a pattern of fatalities following a positive interaction with a human or animal.
A canary we had, Pete, used to sing beautifully for me, and would run after me on the floor with my socks off and toes wiggling enticingly for Pete. One day, our mother sat opposite me and for once praised me for the rapport I had with Pete. Shortly afterward, I came home from school one day to the news that Pete had flown into a mirror clip. He laid in a small basket on the kitchen table unable to hold his head up, and had a bright red gash on his head.
Looking back, I suspect Deb hurt him. Fatally.
Another time I believe Deb, my adoptive sister, tried to off me, I remember I was descending the stairs to the basement, and I saw down below, Deb's bare beautifully tanned right shoulder, and her long luscious brown hair. She had her back to me and was standing in the doorway to where dad's work table and my little play room was, so that I could only see her shoulder and half of her back. I figured she might be reading one of her Nancy Drew murder mysteries.
I continue on down the stairs, and suddenly I can see nothing, because something hard has hit me between the eyes with great force. I forget exactly what Deb said, but it was something to the effect of her not having seen me. It turned out, she'd struck me with a wooden baseball bat. It took some minutes before I could see again.
At the time, I was too naive to suspect she would have done it on purpose, or maybe I was too young to be able to contemplate such a horrific idea, but in hindsight, I am certain she waylaid me with that bat hidden from my view, in the hope that she'd bash my nose into my skull and kill me.
Decades later, I confronted her about her attempts to kill me, and about this particular attempt, she claimed she'd been practicing with the bat. I say, lie, in light of the fact that she lied about yet another attempt, which was to drown me. Her claim is that she had thought I had been drowning, and she then tried to save me.
I remember it like it just happened moments ago. There is no way she was trying to save me. Her big smile above the water as she held me down was only there on her face because she thought she had it in the bag and I was going to die and she'd have our parents to herself once again, like she did until she turned four and I showed up at two weeks old, taking attention from her.
The only reason I didn't drown was that I began finally, after humoring her until my lungs couldn't take anymore, to dig my nails into her ankles. Her smile fell instantly as she let go of me. She must have known from her murder mystery books that there'd be incriminating evidence under my nails and on her ankles, if she went through with her blissful intention.
I spent a lot of time in the basement watching television in my first 8 years. The Brady Bunch, The Partridge Family, Tarzan, cartoons, and old fashioned wrestling were mostly what I watched. I wanted to follow my older sister Deb around, but she wasn't having it. She hated me, I now realize.
The only time I remember having anyone over, Steve, I went under the basement stairs where I had a pretend house, and I noticed that the lamp was strangely unplugged. So I wrapped my little hand round the plug and fit it into the socket, and then I couldn't remove my hand. My legs began to spasm under me. I called out for Deb, and she came and stood there watching my ordeal with a big grin on her face. Seconds went by as I watched her watch me, and then Steve came up behind me and grabbed the back of my cotton tshirt and pulled me off the current.
The plug, which I inspected after the dust had settled, had been tampered with. Half the rubber, surrounding the three prongs, had been cut away. That was one of three attempts to kill me that I remember, I suspect. I never told anyone about it. There just wasn't that kind of communication in my life. No one asked me how I really was.
I've been pondering writing about my life. I guess I would start at birth. I was adopted at 2 weeks old supposedly, in Montreal. I was told that the maternity ward that birthed me burned down along with all records.
The people who adopted me weren't emotionally savvy. Under their naive noses their other adoptee would attempt to kill me by a variety of means, but she was thought of by our mother as the good child. She was four years older than I. I suspect our father sensed Deb was mean, but he died of a sudden heart attack when I was eight and she was 12.
The day he died was the first time we were alone together. He knew I wanted to go horseback riding because I'd said so, over and over again as I looked out the car window at the horses during a drive back from a family vacation in Florida, Deb and I in the back seat and mum and dad in the front.
So he approached me weeks later and asked me if I wanted to go horseback riding. I said yes and next thing I remember is we're at a ranch and each of us is on a horse. There are about 25 other riders, and dad's horse goes into a forest trail with the others, one after the other. My horse follows along a few horses behind his, but then it stops, and won't budge for anything.
The rancher comes walking from the direction dad went and he leads my horse back to the ranch, and tells what I guess was his teenage daughter to keep me occupied with chips and pop.
Hours go by it seems, and some man sitting on a bench with two other men says in his Quebec accent "What happened, your father fall off the horse and die?", and he slaps his knee like he thinks he's real funny.
Then my godmother Inga pulls up in her car, and says "Get in.", so I do, and she starts driving down a forest road. I feel like something's missing, and I ask "Where's dad?", but Inga keeps looking straight ahead at the road with a face of stone and she doesn't say anything as she continues to drive.
I yell this time, "Where's dad?", and she answers in a deadpan tone "He's dead.", as she continues looking at the road with her stone face. I heard myself wailing as I stared at the dashboard. Inga didn't comfort me, other than to drive me home.
At home, Deb was nowhere to be seen, and mum ignored me while a number of adults comforted her. Next thing I know I'm roaming the suburban streets of St.Eustache looking for someone to confide in, finding no one. After that I was sent to a summer camp.
I was eventually told that dad had felt ill on his horse, climbed down, sat on a rock and died of heart failure. I suspect my sister and the elaborate chemistry set dad bought her for Christmas.
I've been roofied. So I guess that's why I have such strong feelings about Cosby. It happened to me twice. I'm glad he's in jail now.
His spokesman is trying to turn it into a race war.
for I'm Not A Man. Great album, that World Peace Is None Of Your Business
Some would know me as redpathetic. I don't have my password anymore. This site is different now. It's been a long time since I've posted.
" A gift is not weighed and measured, nor can it be bought. It can’t be expected or demanded; rather it is granted, or else not. In theological terms it’s a grace, proceeding from the fullness of being. " Margaret Atwood
""She walks in beauty, like the blight," says Boyce with sympathy. "Byron." "Margaret Atwood, in The Robber Bride
""I can't forget about him," says Charis in a tiny voice. How can she just sit here and let Zenia tear Billy to shreds? The memory of Billy. If that goes, what does she have left of all that time? Nothing. A void. " Atwood, The Robber Bride
""But why?" says Charis helplessly. "Why did you?" She feels so defrauded - defrauded of her own willingness to be of service. Such a fool. " - Atwood, The Robber Bride
"Charis can't understand it. Why was she brought out here to listen to this? She turns and goes inside, and gropes her way up the stairs. She doesn't turn on the light." - The Robber Bride, by Margaret Atwood
""Now that's a strange thing, for a little girl. " And she smiled at Karen, the smile of a withered apple. " - Atwood
" As for the rooster, with his eyes of an insane prophet and his fanatic's air of outrage and his comb and wattles flaunted like genitals, he's an overbearing autocrat, and attacks her rubber boots when he thinks she's not looking. " - Atwood
" All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know. " - Ernest Hemingway
" Or this is what Tony sees. It's an exaggeration, of course; it's overdone. But these are the emotions that Zenia mostly inspires: overdone emotions. " The Robber Bride, by Margaret Atwood
Separate names with a comma.