Post by ballerscuba on Oct 14, 2011 1:05:48 GMT -5
The story needs to be told. I don't know how to tell it, other than to just start from the beginning. I can only tell it how I remember it.
My mother used to make pancakes every morning when I was in school. I remember, once, when I was eight or nine, I looked down at the same boring stack of pancakes, disappointed. I looked up at my mom and asked, "Can't we have something different than the same boring pancakes?"
My mother simply looked down at me as I kept rubbing my eyes, answering, "Every pancake is special and unique, just like you." For some odd reason, that always stuck with me.
I returned from college last summer, having graduated from Baylor with a 3.8 GPA. It wasn't perfect, nor was it truly the best I could do, but I was still happy with it. However, with my degree in Philosophy, jobs were scarce, especially in my home of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. I had no choice but to move back in with my parents after graduating from college.
My parents were happy to see me when I did come back, and it was almost like I never left. As I woke up that morning, I almost instinctively walked down the hallway and sat down in my usual spot at the kitchen table. What else should I see but my mom turn around with the same stack of homemade pancakes I had had my entire life. I had avoided pancakes throughout my years in college, and part of me actually looked forward to eating pancakes once more, even if they were the same I had always had.
"You know, Mom," I said as I cut a slice off the stack, "I've missed these."
She simply smiled and winked at me, replying, "Every pancake is special and unique, just like you. Enjoy your pancakes."
It warmed my heart to hear that, though I knew it truly did not mean anything. Although, I could not help but shake the feeling that somehow these pancakes actually were different. They seemed darker, richer, somehow. Must just be my memory. After so many years, I just assumed my memories had simply skewed.
My father had already left for work, but left his newspaper on the table. He had already skimmed it for all he thought it was worth. I leaned over and grabbed it, flipping through it while I savored the pancakes. As I was on my last few bites, a headline in the local section caught my attention.
"Brad Logan," I said. "Do you remember him, Mom?"
My mother turned around as she stopped wiping the dishes. "No, honey, why do you ask?" She then went back to washing the dishes.
"He's been missing since last Tuesday," I answered, reading along. "They found a blood stain outside the post office the other day. The DNA results just came in. It was his blood. They'll be holding a funeral on Saturday. I should go, even if he was a dick to me."
"Language!" my mom scolded.
"I'm 23 years old, Mom!" I answered, not really sure how to continue without cursing again. As I continued reading, I began to realize where the blood was found. It was the place where he had beaten me in elementary school. How could I forget? Something about a baseball card, I think. I don't remember the name, something like Criffey. I wouldn't give it to him, so he beat it out of me. I looked back up at my mom, who's back was turned to me. "That was the kid that beat me up in fourth grade, remember?" I put the last bite of the pancakes in my mouth.
"Oh, was it?" she asked. "I'm sorry, honey, that was just so long ago, it's hard to remember. Did you enjoy the pancakes?"
I simply nodded and wandered back to my room, got dressed and headed out into the town. The rest of the day is sort of a blur to me. I remember getting coffee and something to eat, but nothing particularly important happened until the next morning.
When I woke up the next morning, I wandered to the same seat in the same kitchen, finding the same pancakes sitting in front of me. This time, though, they seemed to be of a slightly different color than the previous morning. After thanking my mother, I quickly took a bite. "Mom, these taste a little different today. You do something different?"
My mom just smiled and turned to me. "Every pancake is unique and special, just like you. Enjoy your pancakes."
I smiled a bit, but started to get tired of that saying. I simply nodded and continued eating. The pancakes were still different from what I remembered growing up, but I simply could not put my finger on it. I finished eating the pancakes and thanked my mother again and made my way to the post office. Out back, the police had still taped off the crime scene, but seemingly had long abandoned it.
I could not help myself. Not seeing anyone in sight, I ducked under the tape and walked over to the small pool of blood. I crouched down next to it. "Brad didn't deserve this for a baseball card," I said. It was then that the odor began to waft into my nose. It was definitely the smell of death, but there was something familiar about it. I can't tell you why, but I got the sudden urge to taste it. I looked around again to see if anyone was watching. Seeing no one, I dabbed my finger in a corner of the blood and put it on my tongue. It tasted somewhat familiar, but I just could not figure out why.
I woke up the next morning and made my way over to the kitchen table. Finding the same stack of pancakes in front of me, I ate them again. These weren't like yesterday's pancakes. There were more like the pancakes I first had when I got home. "Okay, Mom," I said, frustrated. "What's the deal? You switching between pancake mixes or something? Why don't these taste like yesterday's?"
My mom, never shaken, simply said without turning to me, "Every pancake is unique and special, just like you. Enjoy your pancakes."
"Don't give me that!" I shouted. "There is something going on here." That's when it clicked in my head. "These have a special ingredient you did not put in yesterday. What was it?"
My mom sighed. "When's the funeral for that old friend of yours?"
My heart sank and I could feel the blood sink to my feet. I could feel the revulsion rise inside of me. I leaned over and puked the few bites of pancakes onto the floor. It all made sense. The odd taste, the familiarity of the blood. She was cooking with it!
"What the hell are you doing, Mom? You killed Brad? Why would you do that? And why would you--" Dry heaves then stopped my speech.
My mom turned around sharply. "This is just like you. You've never appreciated all the things I do for you. You think I've forgotten what that boy did to you? How you came home bloodied up? My poor little baby, you were so sad. He took your spirit that day. He simply could not live after doing that. It took me over a decade, but I finally got him back for you. Now, enjoy your pancakes."
My jaw dropped. What was my mother saying? "We have to get out of here, Mom, before the cops find out. We've got to find a safe place for you."
"See? There you go again, not appreciating what I do for you. You don't realize that I have put his blood into those pancakes you love so much. He took your spirit. Since you would not take it yourself, I am giving you his and what is left of yours. Enjoy your pancakes, honey, they'll make you big and strong."
My mom was fully gone. There was simply nothing I could do for her. I ran out of the house with little more than the clothes off my back. I used what little money I had and took a train going anywhere. I ended up here, out in Kansas in the middle of nowhere. I've never told anyone about what happened when I came home from college. But, I can't let it eat me inside anymore. It has to come out. So, I decided to write it down in this journal. Should this be found after my death, it has to be made public, in some way. The truth needs to come out. It has to.
My mother used to make pancakes every morning when I was in school. I remember, once, when I was eight or nine, I looked down at the same boring stack of pancakes, disappointed. I looked up at my mom and asked, "Can't we have something different than the same boring pancakes?"
My mother simply looked down at me as I kept rubbing my eyes, answering, "Every pancake is special and unique, just like you." For some odd reason, that always stuck with me.
I returned from college last summer, having graduated from Baylor with a 3.8 GPA. It wasn't perfect, nor was it truly the best I could do, but I was still happy with it. However, with my degree in Philosophy, jobs were scarce, especially in my home of Sioux Falls, South Dakota. I had no choice but to move back in with my parents after graduating from college.
My parents were happy to see me when I did come back, and it was almost like I never left. As I woke up that morning, I almost instinctively walked down the hallway and sat down in my usual spot at the kitchen table. What else should I see but my mom turn around with the same stack of homemade pancakes I had had my entire life. I had avoided pancakes throughout my years in college, and part of me actually looked forward to eating pancakes once more, even if they were the same I had always had.
"You know, Mom," I said as I cut a slice off the stack, "I've missed these."
She simply smiled and winked at me, replying, "Every pancake is special and unique, just like you. Enjoy your pancakes."
It warmed my heart to hear that, though I knew it truly did not mean anything. Although, I could not help but shake the feeling that somehow these pancakes actually were different. They seemed darker, richer, somehow. Must just be my memory. After so many years, I just assumed my memories had simply skewed.
My father had already left for work, but left his newspaper on the table. He had already skimmed it for all he thought it was worth. I leaned over and grabbed it, flipping through it while I savored the pancakes. As I was on my last few bites, a headline in the local section caught my attention.
"Brad Logan," I said. "Do you remember him, Mom?"
My mother turned around as she stopped wiping the dishes. "No, honey, why do you ask?" She then went back to washing the dishes.
"He's been missing since last Tuesday," I answered, reading along. "They found a blood stain outside the post office the other day. The DNA results just came in. It was his blood. They'll be holding a funeral on Saturday. I should go, even if he was a dick to me."
"Language!" my mom scolded.
"I'm 23 years old, Mom!" I answered, not really sure how to continue without cursing again. As I continued reading, I began to realize where the blood was found. It was the place where he had beaten me in elementary school. How could I forget? Something about a baseball card, I think. I don't remember the name, something like Criffey. I wouldn't give it to him, so he beat it out of me. I looked back up at my mom, who's back was turned to me. "That was the kid that beat me up in fourth grade, remember?" I put the last bite of the pancakes in my mouth.
"Oh, was it?" she asked. "I'm sorry, honey, that was just so long ago, it's hard to remember. Did you enjoy the pancakes?"
I simply nodded and wandered back to my room, got dressed and headed out into the town. The rest of the day is sort of a blur to me. I remember getting coffee and something to eat, but nothing particularly important happened until the next morning.
When I woke up the next morning, I wandered to the same seat in the same kitchen, finding the same pancakes sitting in front of me. This time, though, they seemed to be of a slightly different color than the previous morning. After thanking my mother, I quickly took a bite. "Mom, these taste a little different today. You do something different?"
My mom just smiled and turned to me. "Every pancake is unique and special, just like you. Enjoy your pancakes."
I smiled a bit, but started to get tired of that saying. I simply nodded and continued eating. The pancakes were still different from what I remembered growing up, but I simply could not put my finger on it. I finished eating the pancakes and thanked my mother again and made my way to the post office. Out back, the police had still taped off the crime scene, but seemingly had long abandoned it.
I could not help myself. Not seeing anyone in sight, I ducked under the tape and walked over to the small pool of blood. I crouched down next to it. "Brad didn't deserve this for a baseball card," I said. It was then that the odor began to waft into my nose. It was definitely the smell of death, but there was something familiar about it. I can't tell you why, but I got the sudden urge to taste it. I looked around again to see if anyone was watching. Seeing no one, I dabbed my finger in a corner of the blood and put it on my tongue. It tasted somewhat familiar, but I just could not figure out why.
I woke up the next morning and made my way over to the kitchen table. Finding the same stack of pancakes in front of me, I ate them again. These weren't like yesterday's pancakes. There were more like the pancakes I first had when I got home. "Okay, Mom," I said, frustrated. "What's the deal? You switching between pancake mixes or something? Why don't these taste like yesterday's?"
My mom, never shaken, simply said without turning to me, "Every pancake is unique and special, just like you. Enjoy your pancakes."
"Don't give me that!" I shouted. "There is something going on here." That's when it clicked in my head. "These have a special ingredient you did not put in yesterday. What was it?"
My mom sighed. "When's the funeral for that old friend of yours?"
My heart sank and I could feel the blood sink to my feet. I could feel the revulsion rise inside of me. I leaned over and puked the few bites of pancakes onto the floor. It all made sense. The odd taste, the familiarity of the blood. She was cooking with it!
"What the hell are you doing, Mom? You killed Brad? Why would you do that? And why would you--" Dry heaves then stopped my speech.
My mom turned around sharply. "This is just like you. You've never appreciated all the things I do for you. You think I've forgotten what that boy did to you? How you came home bloodied up? My poor little baby, you were so sad. He took your spirit that day. He simply could not live after doing that. It took me over a decade, but I finally got him back for you. Now, enjoy your pancakes."
My jaw dropped. What was my mother saying? "We have to get out of here, Mom, before the cops find out. We've got to find a safe place for you."
"See? There you go again, not appreciating what I do for you. You don't realize that I have put his blood into those pancakes you love so much. He took your spirit. Since you would not take it yourself, I am giving you his and what is left of yours. Enjoy your pancakes, honey, they'll make you big and strong."
My mom was fully gone. There was simply nothing I could do for her. I ran out of the house with little more than the clothes off my back. I used what little money I had and took a train going anywhere. I ended up here, out in Kansas in the middle of nowhere. I've never told anyone about what happened when I came home from college. But, I can't let it eat me inside anymore. It has to come out. So, I decided to write it down in this journal. Should this be found after my death, it has to be made public, in some way. The truth needs to come out. It has to.
