Lemons That Sting

The Sinister Man

She jolted awake with a throbbing pain, immediately feeling a sticky liquid running from the back of her head down to her now-crimson T-shirt. Wincing, her eyes fell upon the lifeless body of her younger sister. Fear slowly gripped her heart as she noticed the silhouette of an enormous man, a shiny object glistening in his hands.

She gaped in horror at the person she now recognised as he plunged a knife deep into her chest. The last thing she saw was the guilt in her father's eyes as darkness slowly engulfed her.

Now, imagine the genuine shock on my mother's face when I showed her this.

It was an entry I'd submitted for my college writing assignment.

Imagine a little Chihuahua suddenly coming face to face with a Rottweiler. Picture the ultimate expression of terror, followed by the loudest screech imaginable, coming from a creature that's absolutely terrified but desperately trying to look tough.

That was my mother.

And no, it wasn't because she didn't like the story. She was in shock that I'd actually had the cheek to give the monsters under my bed a form. And not just any form, but that of my own father as the antagonist.

In hindsight, perhaps submitting a story about a murderous father wasn't the most conventional way to announce my arrival as a writer. But then, I've never been particularly good at doing things conventionally.

And that brings me to the nineteen year old me, who was considerably more of a rebel than the ten year old Ms. Goodie Two-Shoes ever was.

The ten-year-old me, by the way, is a rather important character in this story. She's been waiting a long time for me to tell hers. I suspect she's already regretting giving me the responsibility.

But we'll get to her.

Eventually.

You see, I learnt very early on that when life hands out lemons, most people get to make lemonade. Some of us get them squeezed straight into our eyes, left blinded for a while before we find the courage to rinse them out and start over, carrying the sting with us for the rest of our lives.

As I sit here typing this out, the ten year old me smiles.

We made it.

We found the freedom we craved for so long. Took us a while, a few wrong turns, and perhaps more lemons than any one person should reasonably be expected to handle, but here we are. Free at last, with a little stinging.

And now, apparently, we have a story to tell.

I'm not entirely sure what the ten year old me would think of that. She'd probably have a few questions, most of which I'd rather not answer just yet. But I imagine she'd be pleased to know that we're finally ready to talk about it. To tell our side of the story, in our own words, without having to worry about who's listening.

You might find parts of it familiar. You might recognise yourself in some of these pages, or someone you've known all your life. Or you might wonder how one person can possibly find themselves in so many peculiar situations.

All fair reactions.

I can't promise you'll relate to everything, or that you'll agree with every word. I'm not even going to promise you a happy ending. Life has taught me that those are best left unpromised.

But I can promise you a little chaos, some uncomfortable truths, questionable decisions, and humour in places you probably wouldn't expect. There might be tears, too. The ugly-cry kind, with snot running down your face. So, a little warning: don't read this in public. Unless you're like me and don't give two hoots about the world.

We're in this together.

Well, sort of. We'll probably never meet, which is rather comforting when you think about it. You can read all my secrets, judge my questionable decisions, and then go about your day without ever having to look me in the eye.

Oh, the solace.

The sheer comfort of making friends you'll probably never meet.

And if you're wondering whether I'm always this comfortable sharing things with strangers, the answer is absolutely not.

I'm the person who replays every text she sends, adds unnecessary exclamation marks and emojis to work emails, and reads every email out loud just to make sure she isn't hurting someone or sounding rude. Someone she might never even meet.

Yes, I see the irony.

No, I haven't learnt from it.

The ten-year-old is getting rather anxious and angry with me for making her wait so long. Shhh, don't tell her, but we've got a lot more years to cover before we finally get to her.

The curse of having a great memory.

Although, I do wonder where this curse went when I was learning algebra formulas. How can I remember conversations from a decade ago, word for word, but struggle to recall what X was supposed to represent? Or was it simply that a seven year old's brain couldn't comprehend them yet?

Wish someone had told my dad. But I guess when you're a genius, you assume your kid will be one too.

Ah, I'd never thought of that before. Perks of being born to two of the greatest nerds I've ever known.

Look at that. I've done it again.

A story about a nineteen year old writing a disturbing college assignment has somehow turned into a discussion about my memory, my emails, and algebra.

I'm beginning to understand why this book took me so long to write.

But enough about me talking about talking. There's a story here, and quite a few years of life to get through.

The ten year old me has waited long enough.

And honestly, she's probably had enough of my nonsense by now.