Arrival at Brigham Young University was even more disheartening than I imagined possible. The heat ceased to blaze, girls flaunting their secret curves at me, I fumbled to care. Aunt Macee dropped me off on a side street, waving me off with her perfect manicured hands; ta-ta for now.
The apartment set up to my likings. A roommate shared rent with me.
“Hey bro! I’m Sloan Stevens.” Giving out his hand, every man out here loves to shake hands.
“Cool, Briggs Byington.” Closed fist to pound his.
“Sorry habit in Mormonville.”
Nodding my head in agreement, all my life I have been shaking hands with men and women calling me brother. I knew very little of my family lineage, I had my doubts about their forenames belonging.
“So where do you hail from?”
“Salt Lake City.”
“Me too, the Sugar House county.” Sloan unboxed his belongings in the living room.
“I went to Sugar House High for a short time.” One of the various torture chambers I forced myself to escape.
“Byington? I thought you looked familiar dude! That hoax on the principal’s car that is a legend!” Sloan exasperated the image of his previous controller.
“Thanks man. Just doing my duty as a fellow human being seeking revenge for those lost causes.” I began to like this friendship with my new roommate, he liked the person I was, and hopefully he would accept the man I obligated to become.
Midnight strikes letting the twelve chimes ring truer to my heart than to my mind. Aunt Macee’s hysterical screams awaken my peaceful slumber. Memories shaking her to the core, reminding me every moment how awful my mother must have been. How indecently inhumane Scarlett James reigned in her final years.
Macee’s night terrors didn’t include scenery from that of her imagination. Rather the rage that brewed deep beneath the surface shook her to alertness in a drunken stupor naming those for ruining her potent punctual livelihood.
Gaze upon the crumbled pictures in the burning flames, my seven year old mind acted in saving one for future perspective.
My mother’s form welcoming. Her expression kinder than the words my rueful aunt spoke toward her image. The gleam in her shapely vision transformed my also diabolical hatred for that which I knew to be mother. It wasn’t that I saw any hurtful intentions rendering in those dilated pupils. She looked at me sincerely, my anguish deflating, a new feeling arose sympathy and admiration grew on the cropped photo.
The tiny fingerprints cascading over her smile; my smile in comparison. Awareness came to me in a sudden flash! It was the only thing on my person that reflected that of hers, in this cognitive way it appeared a symbol for happiness. Expressions reflecting what ruled inside me.
My mistake wasn’t that I solely assumed she granted me this gift. Error as it were run down the course line stating to me to use for the help of my pleasure. Thus pulling the heartstrings of those I chose to trick into my favor.
My conscious cricket, fried by the power of the sunlight and magnifying glass. Yesterday’s news of whores and hippos crumbled with the belongings of my sweet young mother once touched. Left me stranded alone to walk the plains of the produce my aunt has reared as her own. Food supply rationed into categories of true or figurative testimonies.
Outlines of your youth betraying you, wondering to your common shoulder if even a fraction of your guardian’s words have been purposeful.
Was the admiration a strange act to ploy me into trusting the brainwash on my Madre’s behalf?