THE END
--I want you to think back to the best blowjob you ever recieved in your life. Got it? Good, only now you're just eleven - and you really don't like the whole idea of oral sex. Although this one's kinda nice. So you look down to see who's there - and you notice that its your mom.
--At this point you realize, really for the first time, that your mother has been fucking you since... well, as long as you can remember. And you don't like it. You suddenly become sick to your stomach. What is she doing. You want it to stop. You want it to stop now. So you reach behind you.
--You have no idea what that thing is. To this day you can imagine the weight and the feel of it, but you can't remember what it looks like. You're sure it's never been here before. It's like a fireplace poker - or one of those metal dowels they use for construction. Anyway, there it is a big metal rod, and you grab it.
--SMACK!! She doesn't let go. She's still stuck. You realize now that this is like swatting at a wasp - you either gotta smoosh it or leave it alone. So regretfully, you raise it up again. SMACK!! SMACK!! SMACK!! Is that enough? She's still here. SMACK!! SMACK!!
--And now you feel sick. She's finally slid off and slumped over. You were always the squeamish type. What happened? You pull up your pants. You go outside. You sit on the porch. And all you can think to yourself is, "Now I'll never play bassoon. Now I'll never get to play oboe. Now I'll never get to play french horn..." And yo go through all the instruments you'll never get to play because you'l bbe in jail.
--And then you begin to cry because - despite everything - your mother just died.
--And you don't go to jail. Your father says you're crazy. The police say she shot herself. Your therapist says you just feel guilty. But you were there. You saw it. You know what happened. But that's okay, you don't want to go to jail. You figure, your father's a lawyer, he must've worked out some sort of gag order. This was before "children in crime" became such a popular problem that people actually felt ready to send tykes to jail. This kind of thing was just unheard of back then. Today however...
--Oh well. Maybe I am crazy.
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--I practice this. I say it to myself over and over. Making sure I get it right and that I don't start fluffing any of the details. This is what I'm planning on saying when (and if) anyone at work asks me about my past. Of course no one's really talked to me the whole two months I've been here. But still - more time to practice.
--I make sure that I don't do anything that would be contrary to this story. Of course I'm at work so it's easy to act depressed all the time. I don't want to bring up the subject myself. Besides I don't wnat to seem too talkative.
--The question is why. Why do I want peopl to think that this happened to me. That I did this. For attention and sympathy? Well, obviously. But why this paticular story? This grotesque scenario? What do I have to gain?
--Maybe I want to be cut a little more slack at work. You know, so they can forgive my flaws and flubs which are in fact the result of much less exciting things such as sheer ineptitude and klutziness. But still I don't need all those gorey details.
--Maybe this is it. This is the story I was born to write. Typing it only takes a few minutes, I know it so well. I like the way I wrote it. Second person so as to distance myself from the incidents and put my co-workers in my shoes. But written it isn't half as effective. I have to cleave the story in two and write about how I made it up and why. That makes it even stranger.
--I'm working on a sequel. Something to tell them after they find out about this. About what happened next. It's still rather nebulous in my mind. Something about becoming a boy genius composer in residence up in Olympia, WA. Working with the WSO, but not really clicking. The musicians resenting my youth. And so I give up and decide a life of manual labor in Colorado is exactly what I need. But I don't like that story nearly as much. It doesn't mean anything to me. So I don't work on it. Besides it's not very believable - not that that other one is - but still somehow. This is not my story.
THE END
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