Storytime: In the Attic (Part 6)

The following will be a multi-part series from a book of short stories I wrote a long time ago. I shall record these stories exactly as they are written with no editing.

Many of the stories are of true events with some embellishments and sometimes a small amount of creative license. All names will be changed to protect the privacy of the individuals mentioned.

Without further ado, let's adventure into my 16-year-old self via our book pensieve. Here is In the Attic.

Everyone Lies at Least Once

The sun was shining brightly through the dingy windows of the well aged, yellow-tinted school bus. My friends chattered loudly around me like chipmunks as I alternated between listening and staring out the window just over another kid's head. The child, on occasion, spare my gaze of stupor a passing glance; he never attempted to initiate a conversation with me. I could do no such action either, being far too skittish of other beings outside my group of friends. After then minute of this alternation, I turned around briefly to behold the dark stained neighborhood sign that, in my eyes, contained no name, rather two straw colored pine cones engraved deeply into the weathered wood.

Slowly, the bus turned and I felt myself hurled toward the seat across the aisle. My eyes squinted as the shadows from the trees outside caused the sunlight to flicker erratically. The bus squeaked to a halt. Energetically, I hopped down the flight of almost-to-high-steps and awaited my neighbor, Kyle, and his friends to depart. They were several years older than me, so I tagged along behind like an overly friendly puppy--the kid I had started past earlier huffed in front of them. He was a rather arrogant brat who decided to annoy Kyle and his friends. Or perhaps it was they who were annoying him. At any rate, I, in my childish naivete, decided to join in on behalf of my neighbor, who at the time was my best friend. Unfortunately I had somehow gotten into a situation over my head. The bickering went on and I came to learn a new word: faggot. Of course, being only six years old, I had no idea what the word meant.

Soon we came to the stop sign at the bottom of the road and parted. I walked home with Kyle, chatting about some nonsensical subject. When I found myself home, however, I was no greeted by my grandmother's smiling face and glistening false teeth. Instead, I received a disappointed glare. "I just got a phone call from Mrs._____ down the street," she said. I stared back blankly. "You called her son a faggot?" I nodded slightly in confusion. "We're going down there right now to apologize!" My formidable grandmother strode off down the street with me in tow.

My eyes were glazed over with tears of confusion and fear. Thought swam through my head like thousands of goldfish as I watched the bush near the stop sign. I dimly recalled the numerous cuts I received from the leaves and the enormous featherlike flowers the grass bore when we stormed past it onto another street. Up a hill, past the house with the killer dog, down the hill, past the house that was rumored to contain holes in the walls from the residents. Down a shady driveway, and up to a brown front door.

A stern looking woman answered with the chubby kid behind her. "Did you call my son a faggot?" At first, I shook my head no in fear.

"Tell me what happened," my grandmother interjected.

Suddenly, the boy burst forth in a marvelous performance that was utterly a lie, yet in every aspect appeared true. "I was sitting on the bus minding my own business when she reached over and started touching my legs and all between them. Then, when I got off the bus, all those older kids started making fun of me! Then...then those kids and she called me a faggot!" he wailed realistically. My grandmother said nothing. His mother glared at me with a horrid intensity and hatred. I began to bawl.

"I didn't do it!" I screamed, practically lunging myself at him in anger. "He's lying! Judy you know he's lying!" I stared at her tearfully, pulled at her sleeve in exasperation.

She turned slowly and looked down at me with her piercing gaze.

"Did you touch that boy?"

"NO!"

"The did you call him a faggot?"

"N-no..." I faltered.

"Kyriel. Tell me the truth."

My eyes welled up with even more tears, "Okay but I didn't mean to! I don't even know what it means!" I sobbed into my gradnmother's stomach. "I'm sorry..."

The boy, in retaliation, exclaimed, "She's lying, Momma!"

However, drawing herself up to her full stature, Judy gazed forcefully at the mother and countered, "My granddaughter would never lie!" Tears continued to stream down my cheeks, and I kept whimpering I'm sorry over and over. Finally, his mother surrendered, apologize, and pulled her son inside. As we walked away I could hear the muffled shouts of an infuriated mother.

---

I remember this happening. It's not something I think about much anymore (if at all), but I can tell it bothered 16-year-old me. I remember when it happened, I was really upset that someone would accuse me of touching them like that. Especially a boy. "Ewwww" says 6-year-old me. The whole episode was weird in the extreme.

One of those things where I must conclude that some kind of karmic story was completing itself, because that was way too much overreacting over 6-year-old children calling each other names.

I thank you for your time. Adiamas.

​--Kyriel