Sadness, Ho!

At first, the sadness appears as a small cloud in the distance, and, if you ignore it, it might give you leeway to pass by it unaccosted. But, if you so much as give it a sideway’s glance, the sorrow multiplies exponentially while it rushes upon you like a ship of bloodthirsty pirates whose chief desires are to steal whatever trinkets of joy and hope you may have cached away in your heart, and to slice you deep with razor-edged cutlasses in order to bleed you of what little life runs through the arteries of your emaciated soul.

Such was my morning. I didn’t intentionally look at the sadness. It just flipped across my brain like one of the fuzzy images I would come across when I would crank the channel knob on an old CRT television set.

The fuzziness was a ruse used by the sadness to gain a foothold on the threshhold of my consciousness. From there, the pirates borded my ship, raided it, and laid to waste my little skiff.

“Your parents despised you!”, came the first strike.

“They were preoccupied,” I responded.

“What did your mother call you?”

“Retarded.”

“What else?”

“She called me Idiot, Doh-Doh Head, and Stupid. She said I had hair like Medusa, and when I was about four, she told me my nose was too flat and that I should sleep with a clothespin pinched on it.”

“And…”

“After Richard… After my older brothers, Richard and Gary drowned, she placed all the blame on me. She would cry and yell at me saying, ‘Richard was my favorite! Why didn’t you do something? It should have been you that died! This is all your fault!'”

“So, you killed your brothers?”

“I was eight….”

“You deserve everything they did to you.”

 

 

 

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