Beer in my hand, wallet in the other my eyes focused as if on prey, she looks like something out of a prostitute house. She is with this group of girls, facing and talking about one of the gay shirtless bartenders that I have employed. Her beauty somewhat astounds and amuses me, the way that her hips sway as she walks mesmerises me, but the size of her fake tits bouncing to the music amuses me. They most likely should be pert and firm, but they bounce all over the place. I just want to go over and grab one, holding it so tightly that the implant bursts. Her screams of pain, the look of horror on her face and the shocked looks of her friends, the music stopping and the whole club turning to look at me and the bloody flesh grasped in my hands.
Skolling the rest of my drink, placing the glass on the nearest table, wallet slipped into my back pocket I wander over to the group of girls. Placing my hands on her and one of the others, she jumps the other just looks at me in a drug infused haze. She opens her mouth to speak; I place my finger on her lips and tell her to shush. I introduce myself, welcoming them to my club and ask them if they want to join me in my private room upstairs. Stares of alarm, shock and gratification are sent around the group. One of the others begins to say no but she interjects saying that we’d love to, asking me to lead the way.
Hand still locked around her waist, I swivel her around towards an unmarked door, the girl that was uneasy yells that she is not going to come and will find her own way home. Fake tits lunges for her arm and tells her not to be stupid, free drinks girl, she looks reluctantly in my direction but comes up eventually.
This guy is trouble, I know it, and I think to myself, that self satisfied look on his face when Alicia hauled me towards them and the way that he is grabbing at her. I told her not to wear that top, too much goddamn cleavage, but don’t listen to me; I couldn’t be right at all, never.
Walking up these stairs in a mission in itself, Fake Tits is holding onto that girl’s hand and I’m gripping onto her waist still, I’m tempted to kick the other girl over just to see her fall down the two flights of stairs and have her head hit the concrete, splattering brains everywhere. Tasty. The stairs open up to my relaxing room. With my private bartender, red leather couches and some treats aligned on the table. Cocaine, Marijuana, Ecstasy, M&Ms and a few rohypnol tablets, these are my drugs of choice.
Leading them towards the couches I hold Fake Tit’s hand tightly, she looks at me with something that I can analyse as something between longing and lust. Can’t distinguish between the two, but both are good, boosting my self esteem, knowing that she wants me. Sitting down, I call the bartender over and tell him to bring a round of champagne out for the lovely ladies. My bouncer closes the door down the stairs and sits himself down, watching the entertainment with an amused face. The girls look around in probably in wonder of how nice this place is. I designed it myself, black tiling on the floor, a large window overlooking the rest of Surfers Paradise. Fake tits talks to the blonde, she’s not bad, bit of a face, would have to paper bag her. Or quite possible jut cut her head off, I can imagine the brown haired girl’s reaction – she helped herself to the Ecstasy and is tripping out hardcore, don’t want to know what she was stupid enough to mix it with, but she would look over half caring then look away wanting to ignore the scene.
This is not the first time that I have taken people up here, more of a regular occurrence. I’m contemplating what to do with these girls. The drug fucked one will be of no risk to me. Or maybe she will have another use; if I drug Fake Tits she may have a threesome. Have to get rid of the blonde and the sooky one in the corner. Ahh the drinks are here, handing them around I make sure that the bigger one is given to Big Tits, the annoying one is refusing to take one and mutters something under her breath.
‘That’s it,’ I yell, the bouncer jumps up, knowing that he is needed. I pretend that I am offended by her lack of politeness, ‘I’ve taken her upstairs and shown you hospitality and what do you do? Throw it back in my face! Get out!’ I scream.
The bouncer jumps for her arms, pulls her up, kicks the door open and shoves her out. The blonde spits at me, Fake Tits tells her to sit down or get out.
‘I’ve had it with this shit Alicia, you can go get fucked, I’m going to go after her, make your own way home and don’t talk to me anymore. I can’t believe that you would let him do this to us’, she yells at Fake Tits, storms over, opens the door and slams it behind her.
With that commotion over I nod to the bartender to make us up a round of Jagerbombs, those things are lethal, especially after a few. A smashing noise breaks my concentration, he apologises, his hand slipped and a glass broke. At least the sook and the stupid blonde are gone. Comatose brunette faces me, asking for another drink. I tell her that they are on the way, getting up to get the drinks; I inconspicuously pick up a rohypnol tablet and slip it into my pocket. I look back at Fake tits, her eyes are drawn to the window, diagonally across there are a couple having sex on the veranda, the woman’s face is in a moment of pure joy and the man looks like he is concentrating. I’m starting to get hard watching the scene and Fake Tits keeps looking at me and crossing and uncrossing her legs.
Turning around to pick up the tray I pop the tablet into one of the Jagerbombs, turning around I grin at Fake Tits and Comatose. As I set down the tray comatose reaches for a drink, almost swiping the drugged one, she grabs two of the ones beside it and shots them down without the red bull. Fake tits high fives her and takes a bomb. I sit between them, arms across their shoulders, I nod at my bartender to go and do something else. He takes the hint when I hand the drugged one to Fake Tits, by now, her chest is half hanging out, I can see a nipple and she knows this and doesn’t care. I suggest that she and comatose come back to mine, that seems to snap her out of her seductive mood and starts grabbing for her bag, she shots down her drink as if alarm bells are going off in her head. As she does this, I feel a warm wet sensation on my chest, looking down I see Comatose, passed out and dribbling all over me.
Fake Tits stands up, but in her heals she cannot walk anymore; the drug must have kicked in, finally. She starts swaying, but not to any music that I can hear, her legs go wobbly and I stand up to catch her. I motion for the bouncer to move comatose to another lounge and then go downstairs. When it is free, I take off my wet shirt and lie her down. She looks like a doll to me. Her blush all red, hair half messed up, but in a sexy way, her heals slightly falling off her feet and her dress clinging to her body. She has passed out, breathing heavy and deep, I trace the outline of her red lipped mouth. Her hands are by her side occasionally opening and closing.
I put my hands in hers and lift them above her head, so that her tits are at their best looking point, nice and pert. I reach up and grab them, pulling at them through the material, fondling them as rough as I can. Reaching down I yank her dress so that it’s now above her head. Her panties are small and encompass all of her. Her bra is black and boring, it has to come off. I rip the material between her cups hard, wanting it to break; it does, just as I like it. I will be keeping this as a souvenir. Her tits fall free, large and soft; they will not stay like this for long. I am now hard; I sit between her chest and rub myself between her breasts, it feels like her vagina. I am almost about to blow my load, but I don’t want to do it on her chest; I want it to go down her throat. I prise her mouth open with one finger and shove myself down into the hole. I increase my motion so that I am now fucking her mouth. I’m about to come and I empty it down her gaping mouth. I take it out and look at her; I poke her belly button, not knowing what to do. I’m half tempted to cut her open, fuck her or just dump her downstairs. All three sound like good ideas. I walk over to where the bar is, picking up a bit of glass that the barman broke earlier and take it over to Fake Tits.
Standing over her, I reach down and grab a breast, gripping it hard, I make a small incision at the bottom and I stick a finger in feeling around for the implant. I find it and stick my thumb in there too, pulling it out. A whimper escapes her mouth. I repeat with the other breast. The implants sit on her nipple as if they were provoking them to poke it. I seize her panties and cut it off with the piece of glass in my hand. I shove three fingers in her hole, making squelching noises; I slap her juices on myself and thrust into her. Fuck, she is tight, almost virgin tight. It is so tight that I’m not going to be able to last much longer. With that, I explode into her, my whole body shake but no reaction from her. Not that I care anyway.
I find her clitoris and make small cuts on it, blood drops onto my hand. I reach up, taking a hold of her chin, blood staining her now white cheeks, and ask her what her name is. She cannot reply, so I pick up her wallet from her bag. Alicia Granton. What a boring name. I tell her that she should have listened to her friend and not come up. I put the implant and the bleeding flesh into the bra and pull her dress down back under her head. Calling for the bouncer, he picks her up and brings her downstairs. I give the lounge quick wipe over, cark the strobe lights for a few seconds to let him drop her somewhere, grab another shirt from the closet and casually stroll down stairs to start all over again.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Not Something From The Olden Days
The constant talking about teenage mothers in the media used to surround my thoughts, not wanting to think nor believe that it was possible. The cool clear jelly sent shivers up my spine as it was smeared over my exposed stomach. The two litres of water that I had previously drunk that filled my bladder began to churn. The ultrasound device was cold, gently but firmly being pushed around my belly. The prenatal heart beat listener caught its purpose; the soft tapping of a small heart beat broke the silence between the nurse and me. On the ultrasound screen, a vague outline of a baby could be seen. The nurse repeatedly told me that I was a brave young girl; all I could do was thank her, not knowing what else to say.
The ten minute walk felt as if it was three days going by, the cars were driving slowly and the traffic lights refused to change and the clouds overhead changed into a million different shapes, thanks to the wind. She had to know, I had to tell her sometime, five months had already passed and she had to let me keep it, surely? She had commented a few weeks ago that I had put on a bit of weight; secretly I knew what the reason was. She looked up when the sound of the flyscreen door creaked open, walking in, eyes downcast, she asked what was wrong. Taking me upstairs to talk, I said that I had something that I needed to tell her. Blurting it was accompanied with a gush of tears, which had been held back for the past five months from the point of denial. My boyfriend and I discussed the thought of having an abortion, him on centrelink and I did not having a job, as I was fifteen closed that idea, with the slamming of a door. The reason why I had waited so long to tell her was because I was 5 months gone, and there was no way that they could terminate the pregnancy. Or so I thought. Mom told dad, I sat there when she told him balling my eyes out. Something killed me that instant, the changing of emotions in his eyes, fear, hatred, scared, humiliated, sad, disappointment and worry.
Four thirty in the afternoon saw the booming of the three local phone books being slammed on the wooden table. Dad’s hands trembling as he flicked through the pages, abortion, that is what he was after. Numerous times I told them that I did not want to have an abortion, this was rejected with the rebuttal – it wasn’t my choice, I had already made the decision and now it was their turn to fix it. They found someone that would legally consider it. A fifteen year old, who is pregnant to a immature twenty one year old, five months gone and only just told her parents? Most of the people answering the phones laughed. I wished that it was a joke, but it was not. Brisbane. 6. 30 Am. two days time. During that time there were things to be organised. $3500, another ultrasound, and facing the heart ache from my parents.
The feeling of fear swept through me as I waited for the nurse to come and conduct the ultrasound and examination, mom sat on a chair two metres from the bed, not able to look at me or in any direction towards me. Two ladies from the reception talked about me in hushed tones. The words fifteen, five months, just told her parents, emergency to get in and many more floated down the corridor to where I could hear them. I wondered where they found out all this information, then realised that mom knew one of them and then it all added up. The nurse popped her head in the door and came to perform the task at hand. When the baby’s body came up on the screen, mom let out a horrible gasp and left the room. The feeling of dread gripped all the nerve endings, organs and muscles in my body, half recognising that it is mine and the other knowing that there is now way that I cannot get out of the abortion. The nurse told me that it is a boy, a fine young healthy boy. Also, that his foot was the size of my pinkie. Waiting outside for me was mom, tears in her eyes.
Silence engulfed my presence between the ultrasound and the four am wake up call to drive to Brisbane. I could not look either of them in the eye. The waiting room was full of women of various ages; we all knew what we were there. An overnight bag was tucked under dad’s arm; he was the one with me. At the time I wanted mom to be there, looking back I realise that he was the one who was the strongest at that point. First in, I was hit with a wall of questions, why are you here? Why didn’t you have this done earlier? How could you put your family through something like this? I explained to the best of my ability, although the nurse was not happy with my answers, deciding to send me to see the doctor. Sitting behind a desk, wearing a blue plastic robe she sat, she told me that she was not convinced that I wanted to have the abortion today, and until I proved this, she would not go through with it. Obviously not satisfied with my indecisiveness, she refused to operate, tears stinging my eyes I returned to the car. Four people sitting in the car, parents in shock of coming all the way there for nothing, one too young and oblivious the other desperate to be in control of everything. A vibrating sensation signalled a phone call was coming from my jean pocket. Unaware of whom it was, answering it, a wave of relief came over my parents. It was the clinic. They were offering me a week to think about it, and another opportunity next week if I decided that I wanted to go through with it. If I choose to not take that opportunity, I would be overdue for Brisbane, needing to be sent to Melbourne for double the price. My parent’s eyes boring into my head, I knew that I did not have any chance other than to say yes.
Same place, same early morning, except this morning protesters were lined up against the door. Screaming things, waving anti abortion sticks in our faces and the distilled and shocked looks veered my way, like tiny daggers carving away at my flesh. They were seizing me up, analysing my motives for walking up to an abortion clinic at that time, the dumbfounded age discriminative glances irritated me. The ground looked mighty fine at that point, the pebbles embedded in the white washed pavement, proving to be a temporary distraction until I got to the door. It was dark in the stairway, spiral staircase leading up to a door with no light shining through it. The gloom of what I was about to do sunk in.
The examination room, pristine white, spatulas, heart rate monitors and many other instruments of action were located around the room. A red wristband was attached to my arm, stating in bold black letters that this patient is allergic to popcorn. She laughed at the allergy when she wrote it, explaining that they most likely will not be serving popcorn at any time during the process. Directed to go sit in a waiting room, shielded from the world, a pair of frog covered pyjamas sat next to me. Their eyes looking at me as if I was an unnatural being, it could have been paranoia, although it did not seem like it. Other women were directed into the room, a television in the corner blasted out the day’s weather, not that we could see what it was going to be like, the windows were covered with maroon heavy curtains, blocking out any glimpse of sunlight. Head in my hands, to stop it from spinning and thinking about what was going to happen in a few minutes. From what seemed like a far off distance, a voice called my name, a strong voice, full of power; it came closer as I brought my mind back to reality. Standing to greet the man calling me, he asked me to follow him. A room, with bright lights and a window facing the city building district greeted me, like the first room it was pristine clean. Floors recently mopped and the distinct smell of disinfectant filled the room. He pointed to a hospital bed, that had what looked like crutches at the end, and asked me to jump up. Lying down, a needle was placed neatly into the fold between my arm forearm and my upper arm. The murmuring of the people’s voices telling me that it is just the pain killers being released into my blood stream seeped into my ears. Over my head, an oxygen mask was placed and I was asked to count back from ten. 10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5...
Bright light seared through my eyelashes, making me want to not open my eyes. Biscuits and crackers are all that I can see, pain griped my lower body; I reached for a biscuit and shoved it into my mouth, waiting for the surge of sugar to reach the bloodstream. The ceiling was white, the carpet was blue and the chairs were a horrible white. I knew that this was not the end of it. Another day to go, the rods were inserted and the preparations were made.
The day was not something that I wanted to go through with, sitting in the same room, looking at the same biscuits, crackers and thinking about the situation, with a longing to keep the child that is inside of me. Tears of heart ache sliding down my cheek, rolling down my chin, the nurse asked me what was up, through the sobs, words of anguish spilled out, trying to reason with her and myself secretly. It was too late, in a few hours I was going to go into labour. Whilst being shown to a hospital bed, needles of pain struck into my lower stomach, wincing to try to avoid the pain, I begged for relief. A wheat bag was thrown my way, a distraction or a relief was something that I was unsure if it was or not. My bladder was threatening to break, calling for the nurse; I told her that I need to use the toilet. This was allowed, only if I didn’t give birth in the toilet. Promising, that no, I wouldn’t, or at least try not to, a crumpled heap of mass hobbled towards the toilet. Relief struck as my bladder began to empty, though the agony of the contractions made my head spin. Unable to get off the toilet successfully, a doctor helped me back to my bed, every time a nurse walked by, a moan for pain killers would suppress past my lips. A constant no tormented me, birth time was 2.30, another hour away, and the contractions were getting closer. Half of the time I had no idea what was going on, eyes rolling around the back of my head, pain engulfing the whole body.
Dozing off, a sharp pain awoke me from my slumber, a quick glance up at the clock signified that it was time. A bell on the bedside table began ringing, a nurse came and announced that antibiotics were needed to be inserted anally, and that rolling over was a necessity. Not that it was something that I enjoyed, nor would ever enjoy; any resistance would ultimately hurt more. Doing what was expected, rolling over and getting it over and done with, a man wheeled my bed into the clean sterilised room. It took three people to move me onto the operating table, as I could not move myself, two legs were propped up on the instruments that looked like crutches and the oxygen mask was lowered over my face. 10... 9... 8...
The ten minute walk felt as if it was three days going by, the cars were driving slowly and the traffic lights refused to change and the clouds overhead changed into a million different shapes, thanks to the wind. She had to know, I had to tell her sometime, five months had already passed and she had to let me keep it, surely? She had commented a few weeks ago that I had put on a bit of weight; secretly I knew what the reason was. She looked up when the sound of the flyscreen door creaked open, walking in, eyes downcast, she asked what was wrong. Taking me upstairs to talk, I said that I had something that I needed to tell her. Blurting it was accompanied with a gush of tears, which had been held back for the past five months from the point of denial. My boyfriend and I discussed the thought of having an abortion, him on centrelink and I did not having a job, as I was fifteen closed that idea, with the slamming of a door. The reason why I had waited so long to tell her was because I was 5 months gone, and there was no way that they could terminate the pregnancy. Or so I thought. Mom told dad, I sat there when she told him balling my eyes out. Something killed me that instant, the changing of emotions in his eyes, fear, hatred, scared, humiliated, sad, disappointment and worry.
Four thirty in the afternoon saw the booming of the three local phone books being slammed on the wooden table. Dad’s hands trembling as he flicked through the pages, abortion, that is what he was after. Numerous times I told them that I did not want to have an abortion, this was rejected with the rebuttal – it wasn’t my choice, I had already made the decision and now it was their turn to fix it. They found someone that would legally consider it. A fifteen year old, who is pregnant to a immature twenty one year old, five months gone and only just told her parents? Most of the people answering the phones laughed. I wished that it was a joke, but it was not. Brisbane. 6. 30 Am. two days time. During that time there were things to be organised. $3500, another ultrasound, and facing the heart ache from my parents.
The feeling of fear swept through me as I waited for the nurse to come and conduct the ultrasound and examination, mom sat on a chair two metres from the bed, not able to look at me or in any direction towards me. Two ladies from the reception talked about me in hushed tones. The words fifteen, five months, just told her parents, emergency to get in and many more floated down the corridor to where I could hear them. I wondered where they found out all this information, then realised that mom knew one of them and then it all added up. The nurse popped her head in the door and came to perform the task at hand. When the baby’s body came up on the screen, mom let out a horrible gasp and left the room. The feeling of dread gripped all the nerve endings, organs and muscles in my body, half recognising that it is mine and the other knowing that there is now way that I cannot get out of the abortion. The nurse told me that it is a boy, a fine young healthy boy. Also, that his foot was the size of my pinkie. Waiting outside for me was mom, tears in her eyes.
Silence engulfed my presence between the ultrasound and the four am wake up call to drive to Brisbane. I could not look either of them in the eye. The waiting room was full of women of various ages; we all knew what we were there. An overnight bag was tucked under dad’s arm; he was the one with me. At the time I wanted mom to be there, looking back I realise that he was the one who was the strongest at that point. First in, I was hit with a wall of questions, why are you here? Why didn’t you have this done earlier? How could you put your family through something like this? I explained to the best of my ability, although the nurse was not happy with my answers, deciding to send me to see the doctor. Sitting behind a desk, wearing a blue plastic robe she sat, she told me that she was not convinced that I wanted to have the abortion today, and until I proved this, she would not go through with it. Obviously not satisfied with my indecisiveness, she refused to operate, tears stinging my eyes I returned to the car. Four people sitting in the car, parents in shock of coming all the way there for nothing, one too young and oblivious the other desperate to be in control of everything. A vibrating sensation signalled a phone call was coming from my jean pocket. Unaware of whom it was, answering it, a wave of relief came over my parents. It was the clinic. They were offering me a week to think about it, and another opportunity next week if I decided that I wanted to go through with it. If I choose to not take that opportunity, I would be overdue for Brisbane, needing to be sent to Melbourne for double the price. My parent’s eyes boring into my head, I knew that I did not have any chance other than to say yes.
Same place, same early morning, except this morning protesters were lined up against the door. Screaming things, waving anti abortion sticks in our faces and the distilled and shocked looks veered my way, like tiny daggers carving away at my flesh. They were seizing me up, analysing my motives for walking up to an abortion clinic at that time, the dumbfounded age discriminative glances irritated me. The ground looked mighty fine at that point, the pebbles embedded in the white washed pavement, proving to be a temporary distraction until I got to the door. It was dark in the stairway, spiral staircase leading up to a door with no light shining through it. The gloom of what I was about to do sunk in.
The examination room, pristine white, spatulas, heart rate monitors and many other instruments of action were located around the room. A red wristband was attached to my arm, stating in bold black letters that this patient is allergic to popcorn. She laughed at the allergy when she wrote it, explaining that they most likely will not be serving popcorn at any time during the process. Directed to go sit in a waiting room, shielded from the world, a pair of frog covered pyjamas sat next to me. Their eyes looking at me as if I was an unnatural being, it could have been paranoia, although it did not seem like it. Other women were directed into the room, a television in the corner blasted out the day’s weather, not that we could see what it was going to be like, the windows were covered with maroon heavy curtains, blocking out any glimpse of sunlight. Head in my hands, to stop it from spinning and thinking about what was going to happen in a few minutes. From what seemed like a far off distance, a voice called my name, a strong voice, full of power; it came closer as I brought my mind back to reality. Standing to greet the man calling me, he asked me to follow him. A room, with bright lights and a window facing the city building district greeted me, like the first room it was pristine clean. Floors recently mopped and the distinct smell of disinfectant filled the room. He pointed to a hospital bed, that had what looked like crutches at the end, and asked me to jump up. Lying down, a needle was placed neatly into the fold between my arm forearm and my upper arm. The murmuring of the people’s voices telling me that it is just the pain killers being released into my blood stream seeped into my ears. Over my head, an oxygen mask was placed and I was asked to count back from ten. 10... 9... 8... 7... 6... 5...
Bright light seared through my eyelashes, making me want to not open my eyes. Biscuits and crackers are all that I can see, pain griped my lower body; I reached for a biscuit and shoved it into my mouth, waiting for the surge of sugar to reach the bloodstream. The ceiling was white, the carpet was blue and the chairs were a horrible white. I knew that this was not the end of it. Another day to go, the rods were inserted and the preparations were made.
The day was not something that I wanted to go through with, sitting in the same room, looking at the same biscuits, crackers and thinking about the situation, with a longing to keep the child that is inside of me. Tears of heart ache sliding down my cheek, rolling down my chin, the nurse asked me what was up, through the sobs, words of anguish spilled out, trying to reason with her and myself secretly. It was too late, in a few hours I was going to go into labour. Whilst being shown to a hospital bed, needles of pain struck into my lower stomach, wincing to try to avoid the pain, I begged for relief. A wheat bag was thrown my way, a distraction or a relief was something that I was unsure if it was or not. My bladder was threatening to break, calling for the nurse; I told her that I need to use the toilet. This was allowed, only if I didn’t give birth in the toilet. Promising, that no, I wouldn’t, or at least try not to, a crumpled heap of mass hobbled towards the toilet. Relief struck as my bladder began to empty, though the agony of the contractions made my head spin. Unable to get off the toilet successfully, a doctor helped me back to my bed, every time a nurse walked by, a moan for pain killers would suppress past my lips. A constant no tormented me, birth time was 2.30, another hour away, and the contractions were getting closer. Half of the time I had no idea what was going on, eyes rolling around the back of my head, pain engulfing the whole body.
Dozing off, a sharp pain awoke me from my slumber, a quick glance up at the clock signified that it was time. A bell on the bedside table began ringing, a nurse came and announced that antibiotics were needed to be inserted anally, and that rolling over was a necessity. Not that it was something that I enjoyed, nor would ever enjoy; any resistance would ultimately hurt more. Doing what was expected, rolling over and getting it over and done with, a man wheeled my bed into the clean sterilised room. It took three people to move me onto the operating table, as I could not move myself, two legs were propped up on the instruments that looked like crutches and the oxygen mask was lowered over my face. 10... 9... 8...
I remember and I don't remember
I remember sitting alone on the silver lined seats at lunch and recess time, trying to inconspicuously drop my sandwich behind the seat, between it and the wall. The embarrassment when the teacher, after a few days of finding mouldy sandwiches asked the class whose they were, a girl who was supposed to be my friend stuck her hand up and told miss that it was me. I didn’t want to eat the sandwich because there was too much butter on it and I thought that butter and bread would make me fatter than I was. I remember the look on my mom’s face when the teacher told her what I was doing, tears rolling down my cheeks and denying that I did it because I was self conscious about my weight. I’m still in denial now.
I don’t remember my parent’s obsession with a camera. Every event was captured by at least one photo. My second birthday, which I had three parties, one at my nanas, the second at my auntie’s and the third at a friend’s all of them in Ireland. The piles of photos bring my back to the day, which was 17 years ago. Just like the Easter Bunny parade or hunt, this human sized bunny towered over me, my grinning face and golden curly haired head staring up in amazement. Both these memories and millions more captured by a snapshot of the reality that once was.
I don’t remember my parent’s obsession with a camera. Every event was captured by at least one photo. My second birthday, which I had three parties, one at my nanas, the second at my auntie’s and the third at a friend’s all of them in Ireland. The piles of photos bring my back to the day, which was 17 years ago. Just like the Easter Bunny parade or hunt, this human sized bunny towered over me, my grinning face and golden curly haired head staring up in amazement. Both these memories and millions more captured by a snapshot of the reality that once was.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)