My past insecurities have largely been my looks and my writing. The way I overcame them was learning how to get over myself. I also realized that no one else really cares about these things the way I do, nor will they ever. That realization is quite freeing.

I have ended my struggle with physical vanity by accepting that I look like my native ancestors, whom I have always admired. Why would I ever want to look like anyone else? The need to alter some perceived physical “flaw” seems silly, shallow, and somehow disrespectful.

As far as my writing goes… it is an expression of myself and how I view the world and others. Right or wrong, it is an extension of myself; I own it. I don’t write for the approval or acceptance of anyone. I bare my soul is an exercise in personal growth. There is a distinct discomfort that comes with sharing and I have come to welcome it.

Anytime I feel pride rear up, an internal warning light flickers on:

Get Over Yourself.

Challenge

The Adults

Write a short story. Nothing too long, 1500 words will be the limit, about that child character. The one who hates grown-ups. Why? And let's keep it to slice-of-life.

Mariah in Fiction

• 37 reads

Prey

"Shit girl, come give your uncle Todd a big hug!”

Todd is not my uncle. I do not want to hug him nor any of my mother's “friends”. My mom likes to party so she brings these scumbag guys around and expects me to be extra friendly with them. Hugs and kisses. Laugh at jokes. Bring beers. Sit on laps.

No.

These guys say inappropriate things to me like, ’If she's old enough to bleed, she's old enough to need...‘ or ’If the field has grass on it, let's play!’ and my mom does NOTHING. She just does her little fake-ass laugh and tells me to lighten up.

I hate every single one of these disgusting bastards. I also hate my mother for bringing them into my 12-year-old life. I feel powerless over my life and who is in it right now.

There is one adult who is different. He is named Dale. Has has come to my rescue several times when others have tried to grab at me or speak to me in their crude ways. Dale is not gross like the others.

There are times he has picked me up from school because it was raining or my mother forgot. He drives an old Ford pick up truck. I call it a "potato truck" because it makes the sound 'potato-potato-potato' when it idles. Dale says he'll teach me to drive it someday. Dale is very nice to me.

I hate Dale the most.

All his kindness helped me figure out that he was, in fact, my biggest threat. Yes, I was young, but not foolish enough to believe his actions were altruistic. I think that eventually, once more trust had been established, he would be the one to attack me.

He wanted it that way— for me to trust him first. He was careful, persistent, and patient. Like a coiled snake watching a clueless mouse. It was just a matter of time.

Luckily, he never got the chance to strike. He got arrested later that year and went to jail for a long time. I never found out the nature of his crime, but I could guess.

Thank you, God, for looking out for me. Certainly none of the shitty adults in my life were.