Personal Narrative-Home

Searing heat, no breeze, and glaring sun attempted to transform me into the human equivalent of a crispy baked potato. It was a sleepy Sunday afternoon, twelve on the dot by my wristwatch. I plopped down on the wooden doorstep of my father's trailer, shielded from the floating, flaming ball of assorted rock and metal in the sky, by a canopy of corrugated tin. The sky was a vibrant, yet non-aggressive, shade of azure, interwoven with swirls of pale cotton. The sun shone on the majestic, yet barren, Nevada mountains, but wasn't very merciful to the flora of the area. A few dried up weeds, thirsty trees too late to be saved, and gangs of prickly cacti dotted the dry, dusty landscape, but not much else. The
giggles of children frolicking in the campground showers seemed to echo throughout the area. Various odors wafted in the atmosphere, the smells of burning garbage, and cigarette smoke being the most eminent on first whiff. Taking another whiff, a second layer of scent appeared, with possible hints of oatmeal cookies, barbecue, or perhaps even a slight aura of cheap perfume. Overall, it stank, unless your innermost passion is identifying individual smells that are all jumbled up into one hot mess.
My father was out that day, gosh knows where, and I still don't want to know what the heck he was doing. Probably out at the local bar getting all inebriated, or trying to buy more crystal meth by doing "errands" for various shady people. I despised my father, but felt a certain sympathy at the same time. Thinking of his plight made my heart jerk. I felt like he just wasn't strong enough. To move past his younger years. To handle life. To take responsibility for his wrongs. To be a normal functioning adult.
I looked around at the other homes for no particular reason, and stood up onto my feet. Some of them had American flags displayed as symbols of patriotism, others had clothes hung out on lines, or strewn about on edges. The lady next door, the robot lady, had flower pots lining the front of hers, I called her the robot lady because she has a one of those thingies in her neck. I pulled the door open with a rather unpleasant creaking and closed it shut with a minor click of the door handle. Our dwelling was cramped. The floor was filthy. If I went barefoot I'd feel little grains on the bottoms of my feet. We had a mini fridge, and a very gaudy green lamp that needed its bulb changed. There was a cupboard, a little oven, and a rough to the touch couch, too. For sleeping we had the built in bed, and the stained mattress with a few broken springs. The mattress became my sleeping place, because I caused the broken springs by merely sitting on it. I suspected that behind the mattress, that there was actually a cockroach graveyard, and that's why all of the cockroaches seemed to flood the place, to mourn their lost loved ones. Everyday, I noted yet another cockroach fatality, would pinch their crunchy little torso with a paper napkin, and drop the goddamned vermin out of the window, watching it blow in the wind like a tumbleweed. Then I'd erratically dispose of the paper napkin, because I have a fear of creepy-crawlies.