Ashers Story

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

My name is Asher. I live with my Mum. I am fourteen years old. Living a hopeless life. This is my story.

 I'm walking alone along the pier. It's raining heaps and the sound of thunder isn't that far away. I'm not really prepared for a thunder storm, seeing as I'm in my brand new dress and flats that Mum bought me to say how "sorry" she is for everything. I don't believe her though. Why should I? She's probably expecting me to come home, give her a hug and pretend that nothing ever happened...- So that we can play happy families. Pfft. As if.

Here we go. I'm lost in my own thoughts again. One day I should write it down, make it into a book or something. That'd be nice, if I had the time...
It's really dark, the black clouds are coming closer and the rain is really cold running down my neck. I should probably head home. 
Home.
It doesn't really sound like a word any more. It seems to echo around in my brain... If I looked in a dictionary, it would have white out scrawled over it and the description would say. "Hell."

 

I'm almost there now. I can see the white wooden fence. The kitchen light is on. Mum's cooking again. That's about the only thing she can do. Everything else fails, she is the messiest person I know & she never knows when she has gone too far in a conversation. She'll talk about e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g, everything except Dad. When ever I ask about him she refuses to answer. & I most likely won't see her the next moring. She'll be at work before I'm up. Just as if to avoid the topic rising.
I open the creaky gate. It really needs a paint job. Another thing my Mum avoids. House work.
Our house looks like it's falling apart on the outside. But on the inside it looks reasonable.
I'm the opposite.
I'm reasonable on the outside. But falling apart on the inside. It's just nobody knows it.
 
I open the front door & step inside, closing it behind me gently. I see mum standing uncomfortably at the kitchen bench chopping up potatoes. I consider saying hello. But she hasn't even turned around to look at me. So I don't bother. 
You know.. When I think of a mother cooking in a kitchen. I picture her humming & dancing to music blasting from a radio. I think of amazing smells coming from the oven as she's baking a pie. But that's something I'm yet to experience. The picture i'm seeing at the moment is not something anyone should need to experience. But when it comes 'round to it. Not every kid can expect to come home to a loving mum full of hugs, kisses & questions about their day. 
 
The kitchen clock says it's 5pm. I know that's wrong because it's dark outside. It doesn't get dark at 5. Not this time of year. Just another thing I'll have to fix when I get a chance. I walk past mum slowly. Still hoping for a hello, but no. I go upstairs to my room. 
My room is small. My bed creaks, the floor boards have little holes in them so you can see into the downstairs bathroom if you lie down on your belly & stare through a hole, you can only see the sink & I'm greatful for that, because anything otherwise, would make me feel awkward.
 
I sit down on my 'chair that spins'... Um, some of you might call it a computer chair, but I don't have a computer. So that would be slightly misleading. It's one of my favourite pass times. Spinning myself around til I feel dizzy. It feels like a carnival ride. Like the spinning tea cups, only this is free, & I don't even have to leave the house. 
Another one of my favourite pass times is looking at my old, worn out photo album for hours on end. It's the only thing I have left of dad. Oh, & Mr. Darcie, my stuffed rabbit. I remember getting him on my 5th birthday... the 5th birthday i'd rather forget.

 

I decide to take my mind of it by looking at the photo album. I'm glad it has no pictures of that birthday in it. Mum burnt them years ago. I walk over to my bookshelf & take out the photo album. I plonk myself on my bed & it groans like a sumo wrestler just slam dunked someone on to it. I open the front cover & my eyes fall on the little sentence. The little sentence that I graffiti my maths book with in school, while Mr. Hudson churns out math equations like a human calculator. "Dear Asher, always remember the good things. Because remembering the bad, is a waste of remembering. Love Grandma, xoxo." 
Good old Grandma. She always knows how to make me feel better. If I could, I would go & live with her. But I can't, because her house is 2 hours away & i'm not a fan of travelling with strange people in a small shuttle bus. Plus, Mum & Grandma don't like each other. Maybe it's because of Dad. But I don't know.

I flick through some of the photos. I always smile at the one of my old dog Dj. The one where he dived into the water to get the ball & the suprised look on his face. Like he wasn't expecting the water to be cold in the middle of June. Silly dog. We had to give him away when we moved to the city. We used to live in an apartment building. They made it perfectly clear by having a sign that said " NO PETS ALLOWED" & a picture down below of a dog getting an electric shock. We could have Djnow. Now that we're living in a dump. But it's better than nothing,right?

I hear a smash in the kitchen & then mum swearing. She has no respect for other people's ears. I put down the photo album & walk over to my bedroom door. I open it only to smell something burning. I walk down stairs slowly in case the whole staircase collapses on me. When I get to the bottom I realize that it's only the food burning & not the house. Bits of plate are all over the floor. Mum must of forgotten that she'd left the plates on the wood fire to get warm. Unfourtnatly for the plate it must have gotten too warm. She doesn't like cold plates. Mum glances at me. She's probably wondering why i look so relived after she's just burnt dinner & the only thing left is homebrand bread. But she doesn't understand that if she'd dropped that flaming piece of garlic bread on the floorboards we could be passed out from breathing in smoke or dead from the roof falling on top of us. Luckily it's still on top of the oven. But no. She does not think of things like that happening. I think she needs too go back to school & learn how to be a firewoman. So much for cooking being the only thing she can actually do.

I walk over to help her pick it up of the floor. We do this in silence I swear I can hear the neighbours cat meowing over the fence. I can't take this any more. "Do you want me to go & take the bins out?" I ask. "Why?" She could of at least said 'yes' after all, it would be one less thing that she would have to worry about. "Because it's bin night.." I say. She stands up slowly like a zombie rising from it's grave. She gives me this look as if she wants to grab me by me hair & lock me up in my room, like Repunzel. But I won't be letting my hair down. It's to short & no prince would ever want to come to my rescue. I stand up. She stares at me for awhile, like she is actually concidering locking me up. Then she just sighs & says "Fine." I take the plastic bag out of the kitchen bin & tie a knot at the top then head for the backdoor through the laundry. As I'm walking away I can feel her eyes burning holes in the back of my head. 

I slip on my gumboots then open the backdoor & step out side. It's freezing. At least the rain has slowed down a bit. I walk around the side of the house & dump the plastic bag into the wheelie bin for plastic bags & other bits & bobs. Then I grab the recycling bin & start wheeling it down the garden path past the rain pipe which is gurgling with water. This bin is really heavy. It's giving my arms a workout I can feel it. My PE teacher would be pleased. I get to the end of the path. Now's the hard part. Grass. Wet, sloshy, muddy, ewwy grass. I just hope I don't get bogged. Cause if I get bogged, that's not going to be good for me or the bin, or the grass. As much as I don't want to I step on to the grass & pull the bin with me. When I'm halfway I across heading towards the creaky gate I get stuck. I forgot about the little ditch. I turn around to face the bin & tug. I don't usually do this. But I'm desprate. Mum hates me . i know she does. If I can just get both bins across & out on to the cerb maybe she'd be proud of me. Maybe. It's a long shot & I'll definitely get a cold if I have to stand here much longer & wrestle with the recycling bin. It slowly starts to come free & it slowly starts to rain harder. I start counting to myself 1, 2,3, PULL. 1, 2, 3, PULL. You have no idea how much I'm groaning right now. My hands are aching. & I'm really cold. Eventually after a few more tugs it comes free & I drag it through the gate & stand it on the cerb for the rubbish truck. Now for the next one. I run back to the side of the houes & grab it by it's handle & pull it along behind me. This time I go around the ditch & get it there quicker. I walk through the gate & close it behind me then make a run for it all the way to the backdoor which I'd left open. I close it behind me & lock it. Then I take off my extremely muddy gumboots & leave them in the laundry . Mum has plonked herself in front of the TV to watch The Biggest Loser. She doesn't seem to of noticed that I've come in. Either that or she's ignoring me. "I put them out." I say. She replies with "Mhm." then takes a sip of coke from a wine glass.

--NOT FINISHED! TELL ME IF YOU LIKE IT FIRST. :3


Submitted: April 10, 2012

© Copyright 2022 maskedowl. All rights reserved.

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dead bug delta

it's an everyday life story, but it's not a simple everyday. Brilliant!

Tue, April 10th, 2012 10:26am

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