StoryWorth: Heartless
Can you remember a time that you were really upset as a child?
When I was little, maybe three or four years old, I had a security blanket that I called my “bata”. It was originally the bottoms from my favorite pair of pajamas that had slowly worn into scraps. I loved the texture of it and the smell, especially when my mom would iron it.
One day I lost it somewhere in the house. I suspect it was a Sunday afternoon, because it was daytime, but my parents and my middle sister were all hanging out in the living room, reading. I looked everywhere for it, but couldn’t find it anywhere.
I asked my mother to help me find it, but she said no. I asked my sister, usually willing to help me however I needed, but she said no. I asked my father and he asked me impossible questions: where did I have it last? when’s the last time I remembered having it? I didn’t know. He wouldn’t get up and help me look.
I remember pleading with them to help me, getting more and more upset as they tried first to reason with me and then to suggest that I calm down and try looking for it. My mother said that if I hadn’t found it by the time she finished the paper, she would help me then. But that would be HOURS and I needed my bata NOW!
Finally I gave up on the horrible, heartless people of my family. I threw myself out of the room and stomped up the stairs declaring that I never EVER wanted to see ANY of them EVER again. I slammed the door of my bedroom, then opened it again to declare: NOT EVEN PICTURES!
My sister came upstairs with my bata a few minutes later. And “Not even pictures?” is still my sisters’ question to me when I’m super annoyed with someone. Not. Even. Pictures.
This entry was originally posted at https://lillibet.dreamwidth.org/1309973.html. You can comment either place! There are
comments over there now.
When I was little, maybe three or four years old, I had a security blanket that I called my “bata”. It was originally the bottoms from my favorite pair of pajamas that had slowly worn into scraps. I loved the texture of it and the smell, especially when my mom would iron it.
One day I lost it somewhere in the house. I suspect it was a Sunday afternoon, because it was daytime, but my parents and my middle sister were all hanging out in the living room, reading. I looked everywhere for it, but couldn’t find it anywhere.
I asked my mother to help me find it, but she said no. I asked my sister, usually willing to help me however I needed, but she said no. I asked my father and he asked me impossible questions: where did I have it last? when’s the last time I remembered having it? I didn’t know. He wouldn’t get up and help me look.
I remember pleading with them to help me, getting more and more upset as they tried first to reason with me and then to suggest that I calm down and try looking for it. My mother said that if I hadn’t found it by the time she finished the paper, she would help me then. But that would be HOURS and I needed my bata NOW!
Finally I gave up on the horrible, heartless people of my family. I threw myself out of the room and stomped up the stairs declaring that I never EVER wanted to see ANY of them EVER again. I slammed the door of my bedroom, then opened it again to declare: NOT EVEN PICTURES!
My sister came upstairs with my bata a few minutes later. And “Not even pictures?” is still my sisters’ question to me when I’m super annoyed with someone. Not. Even. Pictures.
This entry was originally posted at https://lillibet.dreamwidth.org/1309973.html. You can comment either place! There are
comments over there now.