The Epiphany

I'm careening out the back door, now, towards the playhouse, the one which stands upon four oaken stilts. Mother, her vorpal wooden spoon in hand, is hot on my trail. She has a dark vengeance in her eyes, the likes of which I have not seen since my tongue was caught pointing in father's direction. But this nothing like that, for today my actions were motivated not by spite or petty self-indulgence, but by honor and justice. Can't you see, mother, that Susie had to be shoved? Didn't you hear how she mocked me? All I said was that I wanted to be an archeologist, and she said that it was only because I watched Indiana Jones for the first time the other day. I tried to explain that my career goals had nothing to do with some silly motion picture, and that it was because a life of searching for antiquities and killing Nazis seemed to me a genuinely fascinating and exciting profession. But still, she belittled the desires of my heart, and to permit such condescension is to encourage the rise of fascism and tyranny. Had we not united as a nation against the injustices of the British Empire, where would we be today? And if the Allies had not united against the onslaught of the Axis powers in Europe's time of need, then the Iron Curtain of which Prime Minister Churchill spoke would have fallen across the entirety of Europe, but under a different flag. So, you see, mother, that I am doing the world a service. By pushing Susie, I have sent a message to her and those like her: the free and righteous peoples of the World will not stand for injustice and oppression. We will always fight back, regardless of the cost.

It is that very cost I am paying now, for the closer I bring myself to the playhouse upon the four oaken stilts, the closer mother and her vile spoon bring themselves to me. The ladder, descending from the playhouse's entrance, is my only hope. Mother cannot reach me once I have ascended it, for she is old and fat and unable to climb ladders with the same dexterity with which a strapping young lad, like me, can. However, I must admit, my legs are growing weary. It's not my fault, though, since mine are shorter than hers; I'm not built for this type of activity. A young boy should not have to fear his mother or her kitchen utensils, and he should not be made to flee for shelter in his own home. True, maybe I could have been a bit gentler with Susie, I mean, I hadn't intended for her head to bump the back of the couch, but she'll be all right. It was only a bump.

I reach my hand out, the ladder is almost within my grasp, but now I'm starting to doubt my safety, and it's not because mother has almost caught up to me. I may be safe from mother in the playhouse, but will I be safe from myself? I think back to Susie, how she clutched the back of her head, how the tears welled in her eyes. Maybe she should not have disparaged me, but maybe I could have just ignored her. They were only words, and who cares what she thinks? So, what if it was because of some fictional narrative that I want to become an archeologist? Inspiration must begin somewhere, so why not with a film? The more I think about it, the sillier it seems to me. Could it be that her mocking came not from a place of malice, but one of insecurity? It's entirely possible that she has not yet discovered who she really is, and maybe my assertion of my identity put her into a sort of defensive stance. What does she really want from life? What are the things which bring her joy? Maybe instead of punishing her, I should have encouraged her to find herself, to embark on a journey of the soul. 

My hand has now grasped the third to last rung, and my right foot raises itself up for the impending climb. Oh, Susie, I'm sorry. What I did to you was unjust. I thought I was striking a blow for the free peoples of the world, but now I see that, just like when I stuck my tongue out at father, it was out of spite. If only I could turn back, embrace you, kiss your wounds, and comfort you without fear of injury, surely I would do so. But alas, for fear of life and rear, I must flee to the sanctuary that is the playhouse on the four oaken stilts. Will I ever be able to return? I know not, but if I must spend the remainder of days inside this rough hovel, I hope my thoughts reach you, dear Susie, and I hope you will find it in your heart to-

WHACK

Just as my foot finds the first rung, I feel the sting upon my buttocks. The spoon has made contact. The pain, the pain is unbearable, but I must endure it; it is my penance. I free my hands from the second to last rung and bring them around behind me to clutch my newly received injury, but doing so causes me to lose my stability, so I fall. As I fall, I think back on all the wonderful times Susie and I shared together: the time we ran up and down through the shallow creek, soaking ourselves completely, or when we built that monstrous structure, which both your Barbies and my action figures shared as a home, with legos from the bin. This might be the end, so I must think as many good thoughts bef-

OOLF

My back makes contact with the grass, and all the air is evacuated from my lungs. The fall must not have been too terrible, for, by all accounts, I appear to be alive. I even feel my mother's iron grip around my arm, yanking me to my feet. She tells me that I am to go inside and apologize to Susie this instant. I still feel a twinge of pride, so I maintain my composure, but deep in my chest I feel a glow, because I know that this could be the start of a new era, an era of peace and prosperity. No more shall brother and sister fight, no longer will there be enmity between the male and the female, for there shall only be love, understanding, and mercy.

Yes, that sounds quite pleasant.