If it takes a village, then I was screwed from the start.

My mother didn’t like people. None of them. Me included. If she hadn’t been living in the middle of nowhere, as far from people as possible I probably would have been an abortion statistic. As it is, I’m lucky that she had a modicum of compassion once I was born. That I wasn’t just left alone or drowned in a tub.

Don’t ask me who my father was. I can’t imagine how she ever let anyone near enough to her to touch her.

She tolerated me. I guess it was some form of love. When I was quiet and well behaved and stayed in my corner, playing with the dolls I made from kindling.

I don’t remember birthdays. Or Christmas. Or anything but the standard day in and day out. There were no photographs. No memory books.

One day out of the blue she told me in her monotone voice. “I’m just so numb.”

It left me numb.

Two days later she left. I was ten at the time.

I stayed there. In our numb cabin.

Until one day I left too. I’m not an original thinker or person in general.

But I had found a book in my Mom’s room. It described such odd things. Feelings.

Pain. Sorrow. Grief.

It left me with an odd sensation.

Curiosity.

I know, I know. You don’t care for my life story.

It probably doesn’t matter to you right now.

What does it feel like? I’m so curious.

Can you feel each needle separately where it pierces the flesh?

Is there a difference between pressing just one in like this?

Please, stop screaming. I’m looking for answers.

How about when I push my whole hand on a bunch? Is that worse?
Wonderful. If you can’t answer straight, I suppose the louder screams help.

Don’t worry, I’ll take those out soon. Well, most of them. I want to know if it’s worse from a needle to this here. This blade is called what again?

Oh yes. A butcher knife.

*~*~*~*~*

This challenge came from FlamingNyx, who gave me this prompt: I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known, at least according to Palahniuk. What are you the combined effort of?.

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