A Real Life Baudelaire

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
I believe I called this a "Semi-autobiographical short story" it is about my childhood.

Submitted: August 19, 2012

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Submitted: August 19, 2012

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A Real Life Baudelaire

“If you have ever lost someone important to you, then you already know how it feels. If you haven’t, then you cannot possibly imagine it.” Lemony Snicket, author of a Series of Unfortunate Events, says these words after the main characters, Violet, Klaus, and Sunny’s parents have been killed in a raging fire destroying their home and taking them on an incredible adventure. My house has definitely not burned down. I only have a few things in common with the Baudelaire children. No, I don’t bite things, remember every single book I’ve read, or invent incredible objects. However, I am part of a family of three children. I’ve also been through a pretty crazy adventure myself, without hungry leeches or trains coming straight at me of course. All of the events that started my adventure happened so fast, almost with a blink of the eye. Now, the memories of how it all came to be are quite close to me.

Picture a long, hot day in the middle of July. The wind is whistling outside the two small windows and the sun slowing creeps up in the corner of the street. The world outside is full of bright emerald trees and a bright blue cloudless sky. The world inside, however, is full of a rainbow. Rainbow colored bed sheets with tiny oval mirrors attached to them and rainbow colored curtains with sparkles making the room shine even brighter than usual in the orange sunlight. All of the walls are a bright lilac color. However, they use to be bland and white with strings I always pulled off and used as jump ropes. A light blue carpet with rainbow flecks of color placed randomly throughout almost clashes with the rest of the bright purple. The combination of the lilac walls, blue carpet, and splashes of the shining rainbow give the room a very cheery feel. Except, today isn’t feeling very cheery at all.

Now a little girl is standing in the room. The girl is me and I am six years old. This room is very important to me, it is my bedroom and although it seems small and full of hundreds of my stuff animals it’s perfect for my short self. The carpet is soft on my feet and the bright orange rug is even softer to the touch, which makes me smile. I enjoy my short amount of time in my bedroom, mainly because it is my only safe haven, but soon enough there is a ringing throughout the house. It is the doorbell. I set my large stuffed animal seal on the rug and run out into the hallway full of pictures and doors. The hallway is a deep Christmas green and gives the house a dark calm feel. All of the doors lead to bedrooms except two. One, which is the closest to my room, is the family bathroom that all of us have to share. The other is a small closet that we keep all our bed sheets that we aren’t using. This house I have lived in my whole entire life. There is no other place I remember more, except for maybe my aunt’s that lives two doors down. All of the sounds, smells, and feelings are very familiar to me. I walk passed the hall towards the entry which is connected to our bright yellow living room. Opening the door I see a boy. He is our neighbor from across the street. The boy is older than me and taller, but we have similar features. Both he and I have brown hair along with big, leaf green eyes that sparkle when we smile.

“My dad told me to invite you and your brothers to a party” He says.

I hesitate to respond for I am not allowed to handle these kinds of situations. Luckily my brother, Alex, steps in. He is much taller than both the boy and me, but he has the same features except for a long nose and hair that looks like the sea with all the waves randomly placed around his long face. He starts to open his mouth, as if you say something. Instead he yawns and stretches slowly waving at the boy.

“Hey Michael,” He says waving again a look of tired confusion still on his face. 

“Hey Alex,” Michael nods. Michael explains the situation to my brother, using random hand gestures. Soon enough I am bored of the subject, and I walk back towards my bedroom. Instead I choose to go to the kitchen for some breakfast. The kitchen is the largest room in the house, mainly because it’s connected to almost everything upstairs. The ceilings are so high that I believe not even a giraffe could nudge them with its head. The sparkly green counters are freezing to the touch and the wood floor is cool wherever I step. For some odd reason my house is full of a strange coolness that I can’t describe. I pause to look at the small mural of grapes above the sink. I am told that it was done by a professional painter. The grapes are a deep purple and they have small reflections on each grape along with each leaf. Almost mechanically I walk over to one of the cabinets that have cereal. Millions of boxes are tucked away inside the rotating cupboard, and I snatch away a full box of lucky charms.

Now, it is later in the afternoon. My brother, Evan, is watching “Spongebob Squarepants” on the small silver television attached to the wall in the living room. Evan is tall too, possibly even taller than Alex, with a round face and a blank stare on his face as SpongeBob’s laugh echoes throughout the house. My dad is lying next to him smiling on white hospital bed next to the fireplace. Hand sanitizer sits on the corner of the table its scent giving the room an incredibly strong, clean smell that I didn’t like at all. My dad is pale with short, dark hair. He is average height although much taller than my brothers and I. He also has a lean body from playing thousands of sports his entire life.

“Hey squeaky!” he says holding out his arms for a hug.

I hug him and smile. Squeaky is my nickname. Although no one exactly told me how it came to be. I was only told that I sounded like a mouse when I was a baby.  My real name is Calyn; my dad was incredibly stubborn about one of his children having that name before any of us were even born. However, that’s a whole different story.

It is night, about 7:30 p.m. My brothers and I arrive back home after the party which I think was boring. All the lights in the house are on which confuses me. My brother, Evan, opens the back door connected to the kitchen and we are suddenly engulfed in a sea of tears shed by my family members. My Aunt Karen stands by the fridge. This confuses me the most. For Aunt Karen lives in Florida and I was never told that she was in town. She is usually cheery, almost too cheery sometimes, with bright blonde bobby hair that bounces when she walks.

“You can have all the ice cream you want.” She says trying to choke back the tears.

This confuses me the most. My Aunt Karen is always stubborn about how many sweets you can have before dinner. I walk over to the living room because it is full of the most amounts of people.

I was right about the lack of cheeriness earlier about the day. For today, July 16, 2004 my father is…asleep? My confusion is increasing by the minute.  There is no reason to be crying about someone sleeping.

Months passed by and I started to understand. After the hundreds of people coming to see my dad I realized that he wasn’t asleep, nor was he going to come back. As I place flowers on his grave now, at age fourteen, I know I won’t see him again for a very long time. Lemony Snicket was very right about the loss of a loved one. No one can begin to possibly imagine it. However, I’ll always remember that house, especially my little lilac room. We moved away after that. I even changed schools. But not before I was taken on the adventure of a lifetime. The Baudelaire children will always remember their parents, and I’ll always remember my father. However, neither the Baudelaire’s nor I have had a happy ending…yet. 


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