Chapter 2
My fifth birthday was one I will always remember. It was one that shaped a lot of my decisions as a child, and as adult. I suppose you might think it is silly that I let some incident that happened when I was five shape my life, but you do not know me. I, think it is perfectly natural. Here is what happened:
My mother, named Margret, told me that I could invite boys to this party, and, being a much exited little girl, I went all out. When I say "All out" I mean I invited the only little boy I knew, named Bobby Martin. Bobby Martin and I hardly knew each other, only from church, and honestly, I very much didn't like Bobby. I remember him very clearly; He had short, buzzed reddish hair and freckles that sprinkled all over his face, as if one poured red peppers right on his head. And his nose went slightly up at the end, so he looked like a ginger piglet.
He
was a very dirty, nasty little boy who would always pick his nose and
wipe it on his pants. But when my friends heard I was inviting a boy,
they were all much exited to come. When I say my friends, I mean the
only to friends I had, Lisa and Gina. I cannot remember what they
look like but I know one had pigtails. Oh well.
The girls came and
when they arrived with my presents on the day, we all waited
suspenseful for little Bobby's arrival. We were all exited to see
what boys are like in a party atmosphere.
When
he was half an hour late for it, we all thought that maybe he
couldn't find a present. An hour late, he was probably stuck in
traffic.
By the time he was an hour and a half late, the girls
grew bored, as did I, and we started the party without him. We had
waited out through most of the party, and we had only about
forty-five minutes before the girls were to go home.
This was one
of my most scarring days as a child.
My thoughts on a boy were
crude and that they were big hairless, mean, apes.
Hm. I have just
reread what I wrote. Maybe this isn't enough to explain why I
committed the murder. Is it? A dislike for boys would not have just
caused me to kill someone.
Oh,
I hate doing this, but I suppose I should start from the very
beginning. If I do, hopefully I won't get the death sentence when
the police find me.
Ah, let me see…where to start. Ah, yes.
I
was born in the small town of Buffalo, Minnesota where every man was
an agriculture worker and every female a nurse. Maybe that is too
rash. Most men were agriculture workers and most women nurses. There;
as I was saying. Buffalo was a very small town in which only maybe a
thousand people lived. I didn't have many neighbors, you see, so it
made my childhood very boring. My high school was rather small, and
everyone knew everyone.
They even knew me, the goofy Sarah
Spindle.
You know, that was my name to all of them. Sarah Spindle. I mean, of course, that is my real name, but they always called me by my first and last name as if it was one. Never just the first or a cute and funny nickname the other students had. Like Kat Lawson; Everyone called her kitty. Whenever they did, I would always think 'Why don't they call me Kitty? Or at least just Sarah.'
As
I grew older, I realized it was because, mostly, of their popularity
and their looks. And I happen to have neither. I am not ugly. Well…I
am not hideous. I have very fluffy, cottonbally blond hair. I am very
tall and lanky, which probably made the males frightened of me. I do
have huge circle rimmed glasses. And I also have braces, but I am
supposed to get those off soon, but I suppose there are no dentists
in prison. Oh, lord, what has become of me? It makes me want to laugh
and cry at the same time. But, I have to finish this story before the
police arrive.
M
y
parents were very uptight and catholic. My parents, Margret and Jack
would never touch each other or show any affection at all. It made me
start to loath them, really. Whenever they kissed it was a peck on
the cheek. I'm not saying I WANT to see my parents necking or
something, but I would really love to see affection. It makes me feel
better when I see two people in love. Like there is still hope for
people.
Anyways, my parents weren't like that. They weren't
even in love with each other. My mother told me one day, when I was
about eleven years old. We were sitting on the living room sofa, her
trying to teach me to knit. And I asked her how she and my father
met.
"Well,
Sarah," She told me, concentrating on her knitting, "Your father
and I met at his office in Big island, when he was working as a tax
attorney. And I found him and thought 'What a successful man'
well, of course, I hired him as my tax attorney, he looked very
smart…" She paused to bite the knot on her finished scarf, "Well,
you know, Sarah, sweetheart, you know that your father and I didn't
marry each other for love. No one marries for a preposterous thing
like love, anymore." She stopped to wipe the sweat from her brow
and take a drink from her iced tea. My mouth was open as I listened
to all this.
"
We
married", she continued, "Because we knew we would be successful
together. Sorry to break your heart, Sarah, dear, but love…just
doesn't exist."
At that time I thought that she did love him,
she just didn't know it. Or I tried to make myself believe that.
But later on, through the years, I found out that they really didn't
love each other.
Wow, reminiscing about my childhood makes me feel
like crying when I sit here in this bathroom and see what I had done
with my life. I would never have thought me as a killer. But here I
am.
I
did have siblings, of course. I have one sister. Her name is Jenna.
Jenna and I were never really close, due to the fact that at school
she was a social butterfly. She was very pretty, with shiny blond
hair, always in a neat ponytail, and long, dark lashes and striking
green eyes.
At school, we never talked. She was, of course,
younger than I, and by the time I was sixteen, she was fourteen, and
already had a boyfriend, while I had never had one before in my life.