First Draft of Childhood Memories (so far)

Childhood Memories

Cotton sheets wicked away the tiny beads of sweat that fell from my forehead as I lay in the boiling attic of my grandmother’s house. The night was alive with the sound of crickets and the neighbor’s peacock. The air was molasses sliding down my throat and into my tired lungs. I rolled onto my back and looked at the rafter in the ceiling. There was a fleck of old paint hanging from one of the old beams. It was just dangling there; I could almost hear it longing to fly away. I drew in a long breath of air, and then spat it in the direction of the fleck. It didn’t reach it, just rustled the petals of some dried flowers hanging from the ceiling. Amy gave me those flowers.
Amy. The thought of her beautiful little face was like a cool breeze soothing my burning cheeks. I looked at the digital clock sitting by my bed. It was 9:04pm. I glared at the clock, willing it to go faster. The exertion made another tiny bead of sweat drip from my face and onto my pillow. The sloping roof of the attic suddenly felt like it was closing in. The cotton sheets that had been so cool when I had climbed under them were now as hot as the surface of the sun. Maybe, if I moved very, very slowly, the old bed frame wouldn’t squeak. Unfortunately, as soon as I sat upright, it made a loud grating noise. I rolled myself off the mattress and stood up, head swirling from the heat. There was a glass of water sitting on the bedside table, so I picked it up and took a big gulp. The water was stale and warm. I had to get out of this attic.
Tiptoeing over to the window, I looked out at the expansive fields below. A few clusters of trees grew here and there. My grandfather’s truck was parked below me in the driveway, its shiny chrome rear-view mirrors reflecting a beam of light across the grass. I thought of the cool gravel of the driveway against my bare feet. The grass looked softer than any bed. I had to get outside somehow.
I opened the door to the downstairs quietly and crept downstairs. The steps were noisy, but I figured I could say I was getting a drink if someone caught me. I walked past grandpa asleep on the couch with the muted TV casting an eerie glow on his wrinkled face. I crept over the orange shag carpet and into the kitchen.
Stepping into the kitchen was like stepping into the 1950’s, black and white floors, mint green cabinets, and my grandma’s cherry red oven. I found my old boots by the door, but decided not to wear them. I had already broken one rule and was about to break another, why put on my boots? I opened the screen door onto the old porch and walked down the rickety steps. The stars twinkled above me and a breeze meandered past the house.
Run. I had to run into the night and become part of it. I took off running through the fields; all caution was safely tucked away up in my attic room, far away from this new and exciting world. My feet barely touched the ground as I tore through the valley and up the hill. I didn’t stop till my legs felt as hot as irons and my lungs couldn’t breathe fast enough. I lay down on the grass, wet from the sprinklers, and stared up at the sky. The wetness seeped though my thin pajamas and chilled my back. Up and down, my chest heaved. My eyes suddenly felt heavy, and my body exhausted. I couldn’t fight the overwhelming urge to give into slumber. It took me gradually, one ounce of energy at a time. I could feel the energy seeping out of my pores and seeping into the earth. My last thought as I fell asleep was of little Amy. Somewhere in between dream and reality, Amy danced about on the grass near my head. She knelt down and placed her cool hands on my face. Then, I was asleep.

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I woke up to the click-click-clack of sprinklers, and a stream of water hitting my face. I jumped up, momentarily disoriented, and started to head for the house. Grandma was in the kitchen, flipping pancakes on her cherry red stove. Her back was turned to me, so I made a b-line for the tree at the back of the house. I had climbed this tree many times, but never high enough to reach the attic window. I’d have to try if I wanted any chance of escaping notice. The minute my foot touch rough bark, I wished I’d worn my boots. I shimmied up the trunk and began climbing up the various branched, higher and higher, until I reached one that was close to my window.
“There is no way that people do this in real life,” I said to myself as I reached for the windowsill. I gripped the branch tighter as it swayed in the wind, hugging it with my knees. One, two, three—jump!
I didn’t quite make it, but I held on to the windowsill and pulled myself through. When I’d made it safely inside, I sat on the floor for a minute and smiled to myself. I felt a surge of manliness course through my veins. For years afterward, I found that I could become addicted to this rush of adrenaline, and would do nearly anything to bring it on.