Earliest Memory

In the year 1967- the furthest I can see into my memories; I was a young child. That

summer was hot and humid, I can recall as much. I don't remember doing anything except

watching other children around my age and older chasing each other with water balloons to

keep cool.

I was sitting in the shade doing something with the grass, feeling my mother's attentive

gaze on me from the porch of our little yellow house in the middle of our suburban

neighborhood.

I remember hearing the stream of the creek nearby. Chirps of crickets or grasshoppers-

it doesn't really matter which of the two they were- and the croaks of the frogs stood out

among the rush of the current.

I got up from where I sat and brushed the dirt and little rocks that were stuck to my

kneecaps and waddled off to visit the creek.

A small clutch of eggs were hidden around a rock and a green frog sat atop the surface

looking on. On other nearby rocks were small river turtles.

I crept closer to the rocks and jumped. The frog leapt into the water as I drew near,

which greatly disappointed me because a frog would have made a nice pet.

I instead decided to shift my focus to the sunbathing turtles upon the rocks. They were

small enough to fit in the front pocket of my overalls.

I crouch down and cup my hands as one would do if they were catching butterflies. I scoop

up around three and stuff them in my pocket. I leave behind two startled turtles and

scurry back to my spot in the shade.

I sat on my haunches and reached into my pocket. I quickly withdrew my hand because one

of the turtles snapped its jaw and nipped my finger. I grabbed the offending turtle and

held him in a tight grip while I made my way to the pavement. I set it on the ground, went

back a few steps, and jumped.

I landed on the shell of the turtle and heard a resonating crunch and felt him shift

beneath my feet as he broke. I continued to jump until I was sure the turtle was dead.

I couldn't be sure if the other two turtles I had stolen would turn out the same way or

behave, so I withdrew them from my pocket and entreated them both to the same abuse.

I smile in triumph knowing that justice was served. I look over at my mother and notice

that her usual kind and tender expression was twisted into something deeper.

Her eyes were wide and her mouth was agape. Despite the heat of the sun beating down on

us all, her face was not sun kissed and glowing with a light layer of sweat, it was instead

drained of all color and took on a sickly pallor.

I give her a confused look as she rushes to me and pulls me by the hand. "What in God's

name did you do that for, Wally?" She asked as she tugged me back toward our house.

"He bit me. I had to." I shrugged. I skipped off into the house and refreshed myself with

water from the pitcher.

That was all I can recall from that summer. Nothing is more significant than seeing my own

mother's shocked expression.

The look she gave me was a special reprimand in itself. It didn't matter that she and my

father sat me down to tell me of the importance that I treat everything with respect,

even if they bite me.

Their words did not sink in. All I could think about was the thrill and excitement I felt and

the satisfying sound of the shells breaking.

That early memory shaped me into the person I am now. I don't have any issue with it. I

thrive off the thrill of others' suffering and feed off the delicious fear I elicit from

them.