My Dead Piggy: A Tormented boy
Funeral for a furry Friend
Eons ago, right after the last dinosaur thumped to the ground, I was once quite young, immature, and highly vulnerable. A small shy skinny boy, filled with wonder about the big world around me. Around this time period, I had a beloved guinea pig. He had black and white coloring and was almost chubby. A cute and precious but paranoid little creature that I absolutely adored. He would run around his little cage in a frenzy, afraid of everything and everyone including me, but I loved the little fella. One sad day right after I transferred to a new school my little piggy keeled over in his cage. No warning, he was just gone. One moment a beloved pet, the next a sad still piggy corpse.
We had no money for vets, and he never showed a single sign of sickness, so we never found out why he died, he just keeled over quietly. My devastation was completely overwhelming for such a young lad. I discovered in myself my first Great Loss, and I suffered it intensely. My little piggy was my first pet, and his death was heartbreaking for a young 6-year-old boy with no friends. Mere sadness didn’t cover it, I was the epitome of young sorrow, utterly inconsolable.
There was an empty dirt lot next to my building, and I decided to bury him there so he would be close. Even at that age, I had the idea of visiting a loved one’s grave, even though my mother never mentioned it, and I had never been to one before. It just felt right.
I cried for almost three days, and we buried him within a day after he died. All my mother had available as a tomb was a used coffee can, no small boxes, so we employed that. A poor piggy’s tiny coffin with the pleasant aroma of dark columbian roast. There are worse ways to be buried I’m sure.
After the tears finally stopped, I thought about my piggy less and less, as is natural I suppose. The younger we are, the easier it seems for our sorrow to end, out of sight, out of mind, and youthful resilience helps. A week after his burial, I heard some neighborhood kids in the lot next to my building, they were laughing and whooping, and it wasn’t a happy sound. Their voices had a mischievous tone. These were bad boys doing bad things, and no good for anyone. Even then, I could usually tell the difference.
Evil mischief seems to have a tone all its own. I hurried down the three floors to the bottom via the stairs, went out the front door, and around the corner. It was a bright day, around noon, but something other than the Sun burned my eyesight. Horror itself dominated my vision and branded my young fragile soul.
There were four boys all a few years older than me, standing around my piggy’s exhumed coffin can. It was pitifully open and empty because they were handling his rotted skeletal corpse, putting something in his halfway bony head. I screamed, and they looked over, still laughing like gleeful young maniacs.
I then saw the one holding my piggy’s corpse lighting something up, it was a firecracker. That’s what they had put between his skeletal jaws. The boy dropped it, and they all jumped back. I stopped screaming when my piggy’s head exploded.
That day, I learned the true meaning of trauma and hatred, and never forgot it. I will admit, I saw them laugh again, armed with a handful of firecrackers, and my first thought was to make them pay, somehow, someway. I took a single step toward their smirking faces, intent of their harm plainly written on my face, and the lead thug lit a single firecracker and tossed it straight at me. It immediately went off, loud, dangerous, and way too close, and my ears hurt. I went with my next instinct on survival mode only, and turned tail and started running for my young life. Another one exploded and I felt it against the back of my shirt. I threw open the door to my building (sadly no lock on the downstairs door) and heard them laughing right behind me.
I tackled the stairs two at a time as if my small fragile life depended on it, and who’s to say it didn’t? They were inside the building only a few feet behind me, and damn they were BOLD!
I ran like the youngest world-class olympian up the hallway stairs, being chased by the sound of thunder itself. They kept throwing, but my fear kept my pace up. They never got closer, but right before I got to the top, one exploded right next to my head, pain exploding in one ear, and how they laughed then. After that last explosion and injury, I could barely hear it, everything seemed muffled, and I’m grateful for that. All I heard was ringing and the muted sounds of evil glee, little else.
Reaching my door, I opened it quickly and slammed it even quicker, throwing the bolt across. They were in the hall, and I heard a few more muffled pops, then they finally left while I leaned against the door in pain and silence.
Eventually, I went to the bathroom mirror and noticed blood leaking from one ear and a small cut in the lobe. Within an hour, my hearing had returned to normal, and I cleaned myself up the best I could. I never mentioned this to my mother, and she never asked or even noticed my lobe being damaged. I knew we were moving in a few weeks, so that helped. Thankfully I never saw those boys again.
That day, fear and darkness made a permanent home in my young tortured soul, and so I was primed for my dark future, which in all reality truly started there, during that cursed and evil day.
------------------------------------------------------------------------The End-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Funeral for a furry Friend
Eons ago, right after the last dinosaur thumped to the ground, I was once quite young, immature, and highly vulnerable. A small shy skinny boy, filled with wonder about the big world around me. Around this time period, I had a beloved guinea pig. He had black and white coloring and was almost chubby. A cute and precious but paranoid little creature that I absolutely adored. He would run around his little cage in a frenzy, afraid of everything and everyone including me, but I loved the little fella. One sad day right after I transferred to a new school my little piggy keeled over in his cage. No warning, he was just gone. One moment a beloved pet, the next a sad still piggy corpse.
We had no money for vets, and he never showed a single sign of sickness, so we never found out why he died, he just keeled over quietly. My devastation was completely overwhelming for such a young lad. I discovered in myself my first Great Loss, and I suffered it intensely. My little piggy was my first pet, and his death was heartbreaking for a young 6-year-old boy with no friends. Mere sadness didn’t cover it, I was the epitome of young sorrow, utterly inconsolable.
There was an empty dirt lot next to my building, and I decided to bury him there so he would be close. Even at that age, I had the idea of visiting a loved one’s grave, even though my mother never mentioned it, and I had never been to one before. It just felt right.
I cried for almost three days, and we buried him within a day after he died. All my mother had available as a tomb was a used coffee can, no small boxes, so we employed that. A poor piggy’s tiny coffin with the pleasant aroma of dark columbian roast. There are worse ways to be buried I’m sure.
After the tears finally stopped, I thought about my piggy less and less, as is natural I suppose. The younger we are, the easier it seems for our sorrow to end, out of sight, out of mind, and youthful resilience helps. A week after his burial, I heard some neighborhood kids in the lot next to my building, they were laughing and whooping, and it wasn’t a happy sound. Their voices had a mischievous tone. These were bad boys doing bad things, and no good for anyone. Even then, I could usually tell the difference.
Evil mischief seems to have a tone all its own. I hurried down the three floors to the bottom via the stairs, went out the front door, and around the corner. It was a bright day, around noon, but something other than the Sun burned my eyesight. Horror itself dominated my vision and branded my young fragile soul.
There were four boys all a few years older than me, standing around my piggy’s exhumed coffin can. It was pitifully open and empty because they were handling his rotted skeletal corpse, putting something in his halfway bony head. I screamed, and they looked over, still laughing like gleeful young maniacs.
I then saw the one holding my piggy’s corpse lighting something up, it was a firecracker. That’s what they had put between his skeletal jaws. The boy dropped it, and they all jumped back. I stopped screaming when my piggy’s head exploded.
That day, I learned the true meaning of trauma and hatred, and never forgot it. I will admit, I saw them laugh again, armed with a handful of firecrackers, and my first thought was to make them pay, somehow, someway. I took a single step toward their smirking faces, intent of their harm plainly written on my face, and the lead thug lit a single firecracker and tossed it straight at me. It immediately went off, loud, dangerous, and way too close, and my ears hurt. I went with my next instinct on survival mode only, and turned tail and started running for my young life. Another one exploded and I felt it against the back of my shirt. I threw open the door to my building (sadly no lock on the downstairs door) and heard them laughing right behind me.
I tackled the stairs two at a time as if my small fragile life depended on it, and who’s to say it didn’t? They were inside the building only a few feet behind me, and damn they were BOLD!
I ran like the youngest world-class olympian up the hallway stairs, being chased by the sound of thunder itself. They kept throwing, but my fear kept my pace up. They never got closer, but right before I got to the top, one exploded right next to my head, pain exploding in one ear, and how they laughed then. After that last explosion and injury, I could barely hear it, everything seemed muffled, and I’m grateful for that. All I heard was ringing and the muted sounds of evil glee, little else.
Reaching my door, I opened it quickly and slammed it even quicker, throwing the bolt across. They were in the hall, and I heard a few more muffled pops, then they finally left while I leaned against the door in pain and silence.
Eventually, I went to the bathroom mirror and noticed blood leaking from one ear and a small cut in the lobe. Within an hour, my hearing had returned to normal, and I cleaned myself up the best I could. I never mentioned this to my mother, and she never asked or even noticed my lobe being damaged. I knew we were moving in a few weeks, so that helped. Thankfully I never saw those boys again.
That day, fear and darkness made a permanent home in my young tortured soul, and so I was primed for my dark future, which in all reality truly started there, during that cursed and evil day.
------------------------------------------------------------------------The End-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
