We thought we had a normal family. Mom and Dad worked and didn’t get home until six thirty or seven. When we were younger, we had a nanny. When I was ten, Maria was deported, so Sissy, my sister, and I were left to fend for ourselves.
I doubted that our parents even knew what we were doing, in school and out, for most of our lives. With Maria leaving, it left a void in our lives. We, or I for sure, began to think of her as our mother. I’m sure that she loved us too, but it didn’t last.
Our parents got the baby thing over with within the first two years of their marriage. Then they could go on about making their fame and fortune in the corporate world. I did have a sort of resentment toward them too. Whenever they were around, I felt as if they were invading our space.
We live in an exclusive and very stuck-up neighborhood. We were allowed to go out to “visit” with our friends, but we had better not let one of their parents see us with even a little smudge on us. Our parents would certainly hear about it. That is why we spent most of our time in the house, either in front of the TV or at a computer. We had several of each to choose from.
Like I said, Sissy and I were left on our own after Maria left. Mom felt that, at ten, I was old enough to take care of Sissy. She was nine at the time. My only complaint was that I had very little privacy. I was almost eleven, and I had heard most of the “talk” at school. I had reached a point in my life where I needed to lock a door once in a while. Every time I did, there was a knock, and I had to answer it. It was always Sissy with something stupid.
One day, when I was fifteen, I had locked myself in the bathroom and was at a ‘crucial point’ in what I was doing when there was a knock at the door. Usually, I could hear her approaching, but this time she startled me limp. I was pissed. I decided to startle her. Instead of pulling my pants up and opening the door, I waddled over to the door with my pants still around my ankles and opened the door. She had her fist up to knock again as I opened it. She just glared at me and then at my dick.
“You could have just told me that you were masturbating, and I would have left you alone,” she said. “Of course, if you want me to watch you...” She turned to walk away but turned right back. “Does that really feel good?”
The Greenish liquid looked ugly. The small bottle was given to him by some filthy hobo after he gave him some loose change when he saw him in the alley near his house as he came home from school. He only wanted the man to go away.
“This is the answer to all your problems.” The man had said.
“How would this bottle solve my problems?” Jim had enquired, surprised that his coins actually reaped something in return.
“You’ll see, just spray it sparingly on yourself.”
Date: January 4
To: Dr. R. Anniston
From: John D. Connors
RE: Essay/Letter For The Friday Night Group Session
Dear Dr. Anniston,
As per your request, and as required by my parole officer, I am writing to you to tell you of the events that led up to this writing. At the outset, let me reiterate that I am doing this under protest. The best way that I can explain all of this is to write it in story form so I can keep the events straight.
It began two years ago when I was sixteen. I was living my life of semi-normalcy just fine. Then it happened, as an accident, I think.
I have three sisters, a mother and a dog. Dad left when he 'found out' that he was as queer as a three-dollar bill. Now there is the one you need in these sessions instead of me.