Growing up on the edge of a strawberry field, I thought I had a pretty happy and safe existence. Living was easy. I wanted my childhood to last forever.
As I grew older, it was hard to know my true identity and purpose though. I didn’t want to hang around the same bunch and area my whole life. My parents had also passed, which made it difficult to understand if I was part of something bigger.
Always hanging around with absolutely no purpose, a woman with a love for baskets and cooking finally took me into her home. Glad to belong to someone again, I thought I could build a better life away from the strawberrry field. After only a few hours in her kitchen, it was clear, that was not going to happen. The grass is never greener. She and her husband started torturing me with boiling water.
In time I was set aside, wounding my psyche even more and preserving only my helplessness. Daily life was almost what I would call sweet once the boilings stopped but I was cloistered, and could not even breathe easily in their environment. I always feared what unexpected events would come into my life next.
It seemed hopeless for me, so I wished for someone else’s happiness. I begged to myself; make sure this wasted life matters. Use your misery to make someone else happy. My life, I thought, had meaning when the jobless, widower neighbor came to visit.
I inhaled deeply, listening to him with bated breathe. How could I help? “Be careful what you wish for” was my next thought, when his accomplice appeared and the neighbor drew a knife.
The scene happened quickly, with the knife coming down on my head like sliced butter. He continued to cut through me, with a huge grin on his face, staring through me like an old lost friend. The old man spread sections of me all over his smooth brown accomplice.
This grown man took great joy consuming all of me. Ultimately the peanut butter and I did not survive but my life had mattered. Our neighbor was no longer hungry.
He took me down. Nothing is real. Nothing to get hung about. Strawberry fields forever.
Writing prompt – Tell me about the last time you were in a jam