viewerfromnihil
Vein-Marbled Tower
That's weird.
I have a peculiar memory dating back to when I was about two and a half (my family moved frequently (over 20 times before I turned nine)when I was child and attribute my ability to recall early memories to the fact that they occurred in different houses). Of course, I understand now (and have for sometime now) that it was not really a memory, but it was something I thought up as a young child. It's very odd. Freudians would have a ball with it. It fits the bill of castration complex by leaps and bounds.
It all happened like this. My mother had recently birthed my little sister. I don't remember seeing my mother pregnant--perhaps I repressed this, since I'm on the theme of Freud, because of the fact that I hated the attention my sister got when she came into the picture. My sister was quite the crier and I resented this because I was quite the opposite. Also, I had a terrible speech impediment and couldn't speak until well after my sister was born--my brother had to translate what I said to my mother so that she could understand. I had a terrible stutter and I suppose this played into the quiet nature of my earlier behavior. I was particularly annoyed with the fact that I couldn't pronounce my sister's name. Her name was Catherine--she now likes to go by "Caidey" because her nickname was "Catie" and when she was a spry little emo/scene girl, she thought a made-up variation on the spelling of a common name in a manner in which the spelling reflected the name's phonetics would fit her much better, with her superficial disagreement with norms. Though I had, by the time after the time that I intend to discuss, gained the ability to pronounce successive syllables, the effects of my speech impediment would linger for sometime, thus I was unable to pronounce her name. I pronounced her name "Kaffewrwehn" like some poor little caricature of a child in a Talkie.
Anyways, so my sister had arrived home, a swaddled little infant. There's a picture of her father carrying her up the steps to our then-house. I remember this vaguely. Certainly the photo helps and perhaps deludes my supposed memory. More clearly, I remember the period in which my mother had birthed her. We were in a home some thousand feet from the hospital (Not my mother, of course. She was in the hospital). A step-cousin, or something of the other's, home. I remember watching one of them playing a video game of sorts. Doom, perhaps? Perhaps not. My brother was there. However, I do not remember my brother being there. Perhaps he was not there. But surely he must have been. His father lived in Maryland and was likely busy collecting Dixie related Civil War memorabilia and ranting about dem' my pals (exaggeratedly rhoetic). My mother was having a kid. Ok? Whatever that means.
So my sister is brought to our then-house. I remember that I had acquired a Power Rangers toy in that then-house, which I would loser at a later-house. I also remember having one of those neat little toy laser guns that would make all of those weird sounds, like siren noises, that a laser gun would definitely not make. Interestingly, I recall the sounds of that little K-Mart child-directed consumer-product being recalled in my first few psychedelic experiences. Fun stuff. I also remember finding out that the odd little habit that I had acquired of bashing my head into things because I liked the dizzy feeling it gave me was out of the ordinary. In fits I would run around, bashing my head into whatever object lay in my wake. Also, when preparing for sleep, I would bash my head into my pillow or bed if I didn't have one for some 5 to 30 minutes before falling asleep. I would feel peculiar for having once had this habit if I did not know that a cousin of mine, raised entirely independent of me on the other side of the country, had not also had the same habit. I overcame this annoying habit within the span of my young childhood. He, on the other hand, still does it every night before night-night. I wonder how his baby-mamma felt when she was first introduced to it.
Now that this has been covered, so my family was sitting in the living room of our then-home. My infant sister, just brought to our then home, was laid on the coffee table, just near the ash-tray. She was crying--she always did that--and her father--a wretched, abusive bastard--sat on the couch, sitting perpendicular to the coffee table and facing down over my sister with his hands stretched over her. He looked intently at her--with her diaper undone and penis intact--and squinted over his specimen, gnawing the butt of his cigarette and occasionally taking the cigarette out of his mouth to flick of the ash off of it into the ash tray next to my sister. A pair of scissors--the type you may find in your grandmother's kitchen with the orange handles (shears, rather) that are intended for either kitchen or sewing use, or both--sat on the table next to the ash-tray. Or perhaps they rested in his hands. Regardless, they ended up in his hands. The moment came about and the deed was due to be done. To my horror (former-horror, not now-horror, because I know now that all of this is absurd and must have been thought up in the mind of some child that Freud had always dreamed of having as a test-subject), I recall similar scenes in terms of setting, but of different circumstances. The damage had been done. The bandages had to be replaced and the wound cleaned as I eyed the inch-long ash hanging from my sister's father's cigarette, dangling a foot above my infant sisters squished infant face.
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