Short Story
I was born on a summer day. I was dressed in pinks, purples, yellows. I was surrounded by flowers and teddy bears. My mom used to tell me that I was a healthy baby. My dad held me for the whole first day of my life. My grandma kissed my forehead a million times. My grandpa gave me a hat that matched his. I was passed from family member to family member, all of them holding me tight and telling me I was loved.
I was young when I died. My family surrounded me as I couldn’t move. I felt their hands on my face, and heard all of their voices telling me to stand up. My mother tried to cry. My father wouldn’t look at me. My grandmother told me I should’ve waited until I was older. My grandfather said I didn’t know what I was doing. How could I have done this to them? How cruel of me.
Dead bodies don’t wear pinks, or purples, or yellows. Dead bodies don’t smell flowers or play with teddy bears. My mother told me I was selfish for it. My father told me I shouldn’t rock the boat. My grandmother grew angry at me. My grandfather didn’t look at me anymore. And that was it.
The house was too small for the five of us. My mother folded all of her nice quilts, my father packed his guitar. They were kind enough to drag my body along as they moved on. They drew smiles on my lifeless face, marker staining from ear to ear as they cooed about all the good things yet to come. The things we do for a fresh start.
When my brother was born, I was propped up in the hallway. I could hear them echoing the name they picked as they swaddled him in blues, greens, reds. He was surrounded by toys and puzzles. My mother said he was a healthy baby. My father laid him on his chest for the whole first day of his lift. My grandmother kissed his forehead a million times. My grandfather gave him my old hat. I was laid in a chair, a marker-stained face staring at the child born to take my place.
When my limbs no longer clung together, I became a problem. I laid out, always in the walkway. My mother complained about how she had to step over me. My father tripped on my torso multiple times. My bad. They pushed me under the kitchen table for safe keeping. My brother used to climb under to hide with me. He’d tell me about his television shows, and I didn’t feel alone.
After a while, I was caked in dust and dirt, drawing in the bugs and mice. The little squeaking furballs would come up to me and nuzzle my face before nibbling at my nose. My father screamed at the sight of the rodents, and my mother swat at them with a broom. I listened to them squeak and run in fear. My brother thought they were cute.
The house was too small for the four of us. My mother folded all of her nice clothes, my father packed his CDs. They were kind enough to wipe the dust from my face and patch up the holes left in my face by mice and bugs. The car jostled roughly, making my head bounce against the window. My brother laughed and cooed, pointing at everything out the windows I couldn’t see. The things we do for a fresh start.
When my sister was born, I was laid on the floor. I could hear them echoing the name they swaddled her in pinks, purples, and oranges. She was surrounded by stuffed animals and sensory games. My mother said she was a healthy baby. My father bounced her on his leg for hours. My grandmother said she was the loveliest baby she’d ever seen. My grandfather wrapped her in his jacket. They all stepped around me, complaining about how much space I took up. My brother knelt beside me under the table, pushed out of the way.
When I began to decay, I became a problem. Goop and oose leaking from every surface as I fell apart. My mother complained that she had to throw out the rug. My father told me to clean up. My bad. They opened the windows and the wind danced across my skin. The scent of decay became too much, I suppose. The worms crawling in and out of my skin were like new friends. My brother played with my sister, fighting loudly and often. My parents were mad that I hadn't stopped their bickering. With my slack limbs and voiceless throat, how could I?
The house was too small for the five of us. I stained the floors, I made the house reek with the scent of my rotted flesh falling from my tired bones. They were kind enough to hose me down to get rid of the worms. They wrapped me in a garbage bag and laid me in the back seat. My siblings played a movie on their tablets as we drove to our new home. The things we do for a fresh start.
My carcass dripped. I didn’t mean it to. House after house, I stained the floors. Opening windows didn’t dissipate the scent anymore. They stashed me in a trunk for safe keeping. I could hear my siblings whispering to me from the outside. I could hear them lay their toys across the top, I could feel them tapping at the lock. I missed the days my brother would kneel beside me and tell me about his television shows.
The house was too big for the four of them. My mother folded all her nice sweaters, my father packed his drum sticks. They folded all my clothes, letting my siblings try on anything they wanted. They were kind enough to load me and my trunk into the back of the car one last time. They slid me into the forest. I heard my brother tap on the trunk. I heard my sister drape a blanket over it to keep me warm. I heard them get in the car with their parents and drive away.
No more houses, no more moving, no more tables to hide under, no more decay. The forest grew around me, only an inch of wood and a lock separating us. I could hear the animals sniffing and scratching outside. They could smell me. I knew it. Over the years, my rot spread to the trunk. It took centuries, but I finally felt the soil embrace me. I felt my worm friends return, and I felt myself melting into the ground. I spent so long being in the way. Being under tables, being in bags, being in trunks.
I died young, but I love the forest. Here, I will remain. No one’s here to pack me up. No one’s here to tell me to clean the mess I leave. No one’s here to push me under the table.
