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I used to live in a secluded little town with my father. There was a shop on the corner of the street by the name of "Betty's Drink-n-Dine" Its store sign was painted a shade of passionate burgundy and resembled the fluorescence of a bouquet of rich roses. Short blocky letters barely clung to the brick wall surrounding the shop; the "t" was just slightly crooked. Each Friday, as a reward for finishing a tedious week of school, my father handed me a few dimes and smiled his crooked smile.
"Run Along, Kiddo. Get yourself a Slurpee"
I would eagerly nod my head, and skip to the diner. Each ecstatic bounce of my small feet echoed the sweet, sweet melody of youth. It was the same every Friday. I would pass by my Friend's houses and give them a small wave. I would always stare at the two odd teenage girls who always talked about books. I remember how I used to lightly run my fingers over the street post in my excited hurry to the diner. When I would finally arrive, I was greeted by Mrs. Betty with a sharp tip of a withered brown hat.
"How are you on this fine evening?" It was always the same question. Mrs. Betty was old. Shadows weighed down her eyes and wrinkles were carefully embroidered by time and labor onto her face. She was a plump woman with a rather serious expression constantly plastered on her face. She spoke loud and clear with a precise rhythm crafted by her tongue.
I would grin and reply, "I'm just fine!" I would drop my dimes on the table and she would give me a curt nod. My eyes would fly to the Slurpee machine, with its bright blue. I would grab one of those long, thin cups and fill it up to the very top with this goopy bliss. It wasn't just any blue, mind you. It was the type that reflected in the sky on a summer day full of laughing and water parks and lemonade stands. I would walk to the wooden patio at the back of the diner and climb the frail flight of stairs. I would tuck my knees under my chin and slowly sip my drink. The roof of the diner was much quieter than the inside and had a splendid view of all of the houses. I knew it was silly, but I liked watching all of the people and how everything was but a fleeting moment. All of the houses seeped into the blur of the pink blush that had meekly spread across the sky. I was pretty sure you had to pay extra to be up on the roof, but Mrs. Betty always let me stay there. That giddy excitement after coming home from school on a Friday evening, the graze of my unlaced sneakers on the rusty sand while I skipped with glee, the waves, the two teenage girls, the Slurpee machine; They were my childhood. They were the perfect illustration of my pre-adolescent innocence.
I had lost my father in a car accident. There was nothing strange about May 16th. I wish there was. I wish there was some sort of sign. I wish there was some eccentric messenger who knocked on my door and stood on my porch telling me that my father would die that day. Maybe then I could do something. But the playful hands of fate failed to send me any kind of dark omen of what was to come. All I could do when the police came was stand still trying to trap that slight quiver that kept escaping my throat and attempt to harness the rainfall that danced down my eyes. I cried and cried and cried until I lay still, years later, in a bed at 2 AM, staring at the ceiling with nothing left to say. The fiery pits of my heart that used to have felt the most passionate of anger and the most saddening melancholia lay empty.
People wore masks of kindness and altruism when they were controlled by a devil: Pity. I was the center of attention. I lay in a bed of comforting phrases and fake condolences. But could I really critique their inauthenticity? I was controlled like a puppet by fear, so who was I to judge those who succumb to the dictatorship of pity? When I stepped onto the dirty marble floors of the small school, I was scared. When I opened the door to the diner, I was scared. When I lay limp on my worn-out bed, I was scared. Anything could happen. There were no true limits. In mere seconds, the world could travel to a state of ecstasy, or be subject to a heinous, horrifying occurrence. In mere seconds, I could die. Or maybe I wouldn't. No one would ever know. And that murky sea of the unknown was what scared me so much. It had me drenched in sweat and tears in the middle of a nightmare.
At least I still had my dimes and my Friday adventures to the roof of a diner. I could sip my acidic Slurpee and distract myself from everything. I could be a kid again.
Over the rustic threshold my boots went, and on the counter my silver dimes were placed. The corners of Mrs. Betty's mouth twitched slightly as though she wished to warn me of something, but her thin lips slowly pressed shut. I grabbed a cup off the counter but came to the realization that the shop lacked color. The blue shade was nowhere to be found. The shop was lusterless. I glanced questioningly at Mrs. Betty. The old woman let out a slow sigh.
"I'm afraid the Slurpee machine is broken, my dear," She glanced at the walls covered in old Polaroids and small fragments of ancient memories. "This place is getting old" She let out a sad chuckle.
No.
No.
No, no, no, no.
I broke down.
Sobs.
Concerned looks.
I cried.
I fell to the floor and bawled.
"The Slurpee machine is broken. What will I do?"
My cries tainted the lively spirit of the room as people rushed to help.
"What happened?"
"What should I do?"
"Should I call the ambulance?"
"Is she okay?"
And Mrs. Betty just stood there looking at me with a sad, sad smile.
The last delights of my childhood have escaped my grasp.
"Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness of man's heart, and the fall through the air of a true, wise friend called Piggy."
- Lord of the Flies