put the bullet in the barrel

May 14, 2013

When I was in primary school my neighbor was my best friend. She was exactly my age plus one month and lived exactly my house plus one house over, at the very top of the tallest hill, and one evening like 3,342 others my mother called over to her kitchen and to tell me it was time to come home from our eternal play date.

I hopped out the back door and started on my merry way. I remember it being a particularly pretty evening, the kind where lazerbeams of twinkling golden sunset shoot through the branches of the trees and mist swirls low on the ground indicating extremely beautiful poor air quality. The grass was crispy green and slightly damp on the soles of my feet as I rounded the corner to the front of the house and strode confidently towards home.

Just as I crested the peak of the hill I put one foot in front of the other and stepped straight into an open drainpipe that just so happened to be in the middle of the yard and just so happened to be the exact diameter of my grade school thigh. I looked around in alarm as half of me was suddenly swallowed by the earth, flailing my arms like a rat on a tiny boat, a castaway tethered in an undulating sea of grass.

After the initial shock wore off and I took stock of my situation a more pressing sort of panic settled into my chest. I yelled and wiggled and waved my useless arms in the golden light like a tulip planted in the bloody yard for the better part of an hour, surrounded by dancing sunbeam unicorns, and thought, "WHAT. IF. NO ONE. EVER. FINDS ME."

No one ever did, and then I died and worms ate my leg. The end.





(What do you think this is, Lost or something? Eventually I pulled myself out and went home, slightly traumatized and cutup about the leg but no worse for wear, and when I worked myself up into a tizzy and told all the nearby adults about what happened they shrugged their shoulders and told me to go play in the street. I MAY AS WELL BE DEAD, OKAY.)
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