When Accidentally Threw Herself Down A Flight Essay Example

cherished photograph of her resides within my room, ensconced within a wooden frame adorned with ivy vines gracefully spiraling like smoke in each corner.

In the picture, taken at her prom, she has a cloud of curly hair framing her face. I find it appealing because it allows me to imagine that she is without any worries. According to Grandma, she attended the prom by herself and appeared quite happy. It makes me curious about the type of girl who would attend prom without a date and then become pregnant at eighteen years old. The photograph also features Uncle Jared, who is seen with a big smile on his face and his arm draped around her shoulders. I have a great relationship with Uncle Jared.

Despite his dislike for her, he allows me to visit and use his TV to watch terrible music videos. He doesn't ask me for help with household chores like loading the dishwasher or dusting the knick-knack shelves. Both he and his wife are expecting their third child, although I don't understand why they would want another one after already having two. In fact, I fail to comprehend their desire to have children at all. Currently, I am sitting in his living room, completely unaware of the noise coming from the TV as I lose myself in a book. Meanwhile, Grandma is conversing with Michelle's baby bump.

Michelle is married to Jared. She is petite and has limited intelligence. Grandma thinks Michelle made a mistake marrying Jared, just like she thinks Jared is foolish. Grandma favored my mother over Michelle. The month is November, and I enjoy observing the lifeless things outdoors. Setting

aside any dark aspects, it is pleasant to witness the exposed soil and the bare branches of trees.

They appear to be waiting, just like me. Creaking in the wind, lost in their own thoughts, tired and waiting. I ponder if I will ever experience the joy of springtime. A child gazes at me. The child's name eludes my memory. This child is Jared's oldest daughter and she is picking her nose. I feel small and insignificant under her intense gaze, as if I could disappear into the threads of the rug, like tiny towering buildings. I may be invisible to others, but not to her.

I have a dislike for children because they possess an abundance of knowledge, something I lacked during my own childhood. Memories of my early years are vividly painted with reds, blacks, and vomit greens. The distinct smells of Grandma's cigarettes, casseroles, and play dough still linger in my recollections. During my time in school, I felt like a ghost, with only fragments of my existence visible to both the teachers and my peers.

The text describes someone with a bit of their arm covered in a sweater, wearing Mary Jane shoes, and speaking quietly with a small, thin-lipped mouth. Others are constantly talking in hushed tones about this person. They are dressed in a similar fashion to their mother when she was young, an outfit chosen by their grandmother.

I often ponder if my Mother despised the pink jumpers and the fold over lacy socks as intensely as I did. The thought of asking Grandma why she chose to keep me instead of giving me away has never crossed

my mind. I believe I would have preferred being given away instead. The possibilities would have been endless - I could have attained glamour, popularity, and intelligence. I could have excelled at playing the violin or painting or even running marathons. I could have indulged in eating bean sprouts with my bohemian adoptive parents and joined P. E. T. A.

My mother would have a face, and I could touch it, too, if she had decided to be a missionary over the summer in Ghana. It is time to go. Grandma kisses everyone and makes a big show of leaving, she slips peppermints into the pockets of the children; she scolds uncle Jared and gives aunt Michelle her most superficial smile. We pile into the pick up and Grandpa grumbles as much as the engine as it coughs reluctantly to life.

During their drive home, they discuss the harmony between Jared's kitchen wallpaper and the tile. Despite Grandma being relatively young when she had my Mother and my Mother sadly passing away at a young age of nineteen, I was born into this world. However, I have a different perspective on my birth as I was surgically delivered and placed in a small plastic coffin with a respirator in my throat. Perhaps I never had the opportunity to cry.

I secure my room by closing and locking the door. Within, the pale yellow walls display a collection of magazine cutouts featuring cheerful individuals engaged in various activities – smiling, smoking, drinking, playing the guitar, jumping off cliffs, acting, and singing. These visual representations serve as a source of solace for me by alleviating my sense of isolation.

I am

fond of their smiles, which enhance the authenticity of my own. The sound of Grandma preparing dinner in the adjacent room fills my ears with her gentle sighs and whispered concerns. This week she needs to settle the electricity bill as Grandpa's pension holds no value. Jared has approached her for financial assistance.

I appear to be in need of new pants. I glance down at my worn-out jeans from Wal-Mart and appreciate the subtle gap between my shoes and the cuffs. The fit is satisfactory. As we have dinner, the television becomes the substitute for conversation. Despite Grandma's attempt to inquire about my school, Grandpa increases the volume of Friends, and Joey's voice prevails. Laughter ensues.

Tomorrow is Sunday, and I am filled with dread for the impending Monday. I struggle to find sleep as I toss and turn, disheveling the blankets and discarding my pillow on the floor. I repeatedly alternate between sitting up and laying back down.

Observing the moonlight slants on the carpet and the gradual movement of light bars towards the foot of my bed, I decide to close my eyes once more. I exit the bed and hastily cross my room, resembling little white mice with my bare feet scurrying across the floor. As I enter an empty kitchen with a buzzing refrigerator, I hesitate momentarily before opening it. The cold light reflects off the linoleum and disappears into the darkness that engulfs the surroundings. The corners of the room appear deeper during the nighttime. I proceed to make a chicken salad sandwich and pour a glass of orange juice as it doesn't matter that it is two o'clock in the morning.

At

night, things have a different atmosphere. The air is calm, and the sounds of sleep envelop everything. However, even when you are awake, you can still sense it—the collective unconscious. I have a feeling that my Mother also had long toes.

As I go to take a bite of my sandwich, it never reaches my mouth. Tears begin to fall, staining both the bread and my face with salt. I weep for what feels like hours, although it must only be minutes. My tears continue to flow until eventually, I cease crying before all of the sadness has been expelled.
In the end, I toss the remaining portion of the sandwich into the garbage. I doubt I would have eaten it in any case.