(I am reposting this, as I was truly touched by the comments I received so far on initial post; since then, someone posted multiple times today and so this got lost - Please don't forgot to comment at the end!)
FIRST INSTALLMENT:
1) A worm, when I ran over it on my tricycle at the age of 3.
I was devastated at the time - wept at the scene of the crime, hunched over the pinky-squiggling death throes of the creature. I felt guilty for days, possibly weeks, which brings into question modern psychological theorizing regarding the age a human being is able to develop a conscious, and feel empathy for other living things.
2) A bee. At a picnic in the woods, I stepped on a bee. Somehow it got under my tiny Dr. Scholl sandals. I was 4 years old at the time. The sting hurt like hell, but what I remember most, all these decades later, is the dead bee under my feet. I again felt tremendous sadness, remorse, and guilt (see above regarding possible psychological implications).
3) Trust. I opened a jar of creamed marshmallow (brand new) - Had to get a chair and climb up onto the matte-yellow kitchen counter tile to reach the cupboard where it lay in wait for me in the darkness, sickly and sweet, and maddeningly tempting. The assault of my small, 4- year old fingers left a (in my mind) Grand Canyon-size imprint in the creamy, swirly, blindingly white marshmallow wetness, advertising the truth of my gluttonous assault. This egregious gouge was discovered by my older cousin, who confronted me in a merciless fashion, nearly Gestapo-style. Terrified, my heart pounding, I lied and said it wasn't me, but we both knew that it was.
4) Trust (again). Some friend of my mother's made powdered-sugar cookies. My mom put them in the cupboard above the refrigerator. While she sat in the living room talking to her friends, I again got the chair and began my Everest-like climb to where they rested in a tin, seemingly a mile-high away from my 5-year old reach. Mission accomplished: I shoved a few in my mouth as quickly and quietly as I could. Suddenly my mother's piercing, shrill, Edith-Bunker like voice broke through my feasting-induced, sugar-laden trance. "ANGIE? What are you doing???" "Eating graham-crackers," I quickly replied, my face hot with shame, guilt, and the remains of rapidly drifting-away pleasure. "We don't HAVE any graham crackers!" she screamed.
Gulp.
(And so I am curious: What have YOU killed during your lifetime, dear O.S. readers?)
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Comments
Just recently, through the wonders of technology, I was able to find him and contact him again. I left my number, thinking that he'd probably not even remember me. Or, I thought, if he does remember, it will be with thoughts about what a bitch I was.
A few hours later, he did call, and we talked and talked. It's been over fifty years since we saw one another. Right before the phone call ended, he said, "So, are you still so beautiful?" I smiled, and said, "I try."
He took a deep breath and I heard it across the phone line. "I knew we'd connect again one day," he said. It broke my heart.
Unable to stand, this unfortunate defective creature, the result of inbreeding, needed to be put down. The mother cat had not buried it, had not done what I was told they would do. It became clear that it was up to me. I didn't want to do it. Dad had always told me though, that life didn't ask us what we wanted to do, it demanded that we do what we must.
We lived out in the country. There was a gravel pit near my house. I took the .20 gauge shotgun, a single shell and the squirming, suffering kitten to the pit beneath the dripping clouds.
I remember how soft it felt in my hands. I remember my heart pounding in anguish, and the odd anticipation of such an act as this. I hated being put into that role by fate. I hated that the kitten had to be born that way. I hated that it had to die.
I placed the kitten on the stump, mewling and pawing. I ran a single finger over it's head. I told it I was sorry as I backed off.
I loaded the shotgun and cocked back the hammer. I raised the barrel and lined up the shot. The golden bead focusing in and out with the furry animal.
I remember thinking that God was unjust. I pulled the trigger. In terrible violence the kitten vanished in a horrible spray of blood and fur.
It's suffering ended. I told myself I did the right thing. I was glad the rain hid my tears when I returned home and put the shotgun away.
I've made a killing in markets. But also been crushed by them.
I've killed a 1/2 pint of Popov Vodka with gusto.
But it is best to position ones self in the world so that the word, 'kill' never seems appropriate. Life doesn't have to be that hard.
reading you makes me feel like am a heartless, cold sphinx - as I have killed plenty, without second thoughts. sometimes have actually taken pride in being able to do so - zillions of mosquitos that cused my arms to swell up, my face to turn blotchy with painful stings (no remorese, but when their bodies burst open and left bloodstain - my own blood, felt disgust not remorse) , millions of ants, tiny red ones (angrily) and big black ones, for these I felt pity later, their pincers going open-close, open-close made me think of monsters somehow, mostly, would quickly shake them off and try to run away, if it seemed impossible, would step on them. Have killed worms whenever I spotted them, except the red centipedes, which would turn into coins that we would pick up with two fingers to roll them out back into the garden.
accidentally killed a dragonfly once when I bottled it to be able to keep it as pet - it was such a pleasure to see it deed the ends of grass from my finger with its tiny-winy little mouth - but it died and this felt sad. We gave up catching dragon flies after that. We killed rats once when one of the houses we lived at had become so infested with them that one morning I had woken up to find babies under the pillow I had slept on the night before! Got the scare of my life, my five year old body had shivered to think of what might have happened to me during the night if I had put my hand under the pillow in my sleep...
then we killed termites in another house - sold it off finally when we could not completely get rid of them - lot 'pest' killing seems in my life...
never killed birds, or trees or shoots or dogs or cats or anything else. met some men I might have killed off if I had a gun and if I had been mad enough but somewhere in between your mind starts working and you grow disgusted and want to walk away and not have anything at all to do with these...I have been lucky
yes, have killed a couple of relationships in error and because I was not sure of myself.
lie I did not - I mean, not to 'kill' - lied to save: time, money, people, work I loved, pictures that'd otherwise get in the trashcan, books; now? I do lie: to buy time, to get away from boring chores, from people I do not like, to buy me-time and sometimes to keep peace. Thx for the invite :)
1. God. age 6 or 7.
2.faith in anything but bodily appearance. age 12
3.faith in anything anyone had to say, ever. age 16.
4.the idea of a Cosmos disconnected from me. Age 17, smoking pot.
5.faith that i would ever get my true medicine again. my thc. age now