A Monologue by Sam Swinehart
I don’t think I am a bad person. Am I? I do bad things, like drink milk right out of the carton, and I pass homeless people in the streets and look away, but I don’t think I am a bad person. Everyone does bad things, even the Pope, even the Queen of England. The only people who haven’t done bad things are babies, and who knows? Maybe crying at 3 AM counts as a bad thing.
The reason I ask this is because I may or may not have traumatized my brother. Like, no joke, 100%, traumatized him. In my mind it was only fair, but, well, you’ll see. It all started when he was 5. Now, I know what you are thinking. “Five?! You traumatized your sibling at age FIVE?!” Yeah. I did. And he deserved it, too. He was just young enough he was still cute, but old enough to love listening to stories. And boy did he listen to them.
I mean, at first, it didn’t bother me. A story told by my mother, me in the top of our bunk bed, him in the bottom, and we would fall asleep together. But, one story grew into two, two to three, and soon enough, he had six stories an evening, three from my mom, and three from my dad. It was awesome. I got to stay up another hour past my bedtime, listening to stories! But, as soon as it started, it stopped. My parents had gotten wise to his ‘devious’ plan, and took it down to one story an evening. That left me and my brother with an hour to kill every evening, because we were used to staying up that late. So then he started asking me to tell him stories. And I said ok!
You can tell where this went. I told him one story, then two, then three, and guess what. Yeah. Six an evening. And, that’s where I hit my limit. One was fun, two was goofy, three was ridiculous, but four onwards? Just a bunch of boloney. No five year old should have that many stories in one evening, let alone for months in a row. So I decided to stop telling him stories. But, that’s where the issue came in. Like I said, I was in the top bunk, and he was in the bottom, meaning there was nothing stopping him from just going ‘Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. SAM!’ It was a nightmare. So, I decided to get revenge.
It was just around Halloween when it happened. I had an orange blinker, it was something you wore on Halloween to protect yourself from cars, you put it on your chest and it flashed on, off. On, off. And it was underneath my pillow (don’t ask) from after Trick-or-Treating, and I was planning on using it to exact my sweet, sweet revenge. So, just like clockwork, he crawled into bed, and asked in his sweetest voice ‘Will you tell me a story?’ Normally I would have said no, and chaos would have ensued, but tonight was special.
Seeing as it was around Halloween, I asked him ‘Do you wanna hear a… spooky story?’ He said yes with no hesitation. So, I started a tale of epic proportions, a half-hour yarn about a monster that loves to eat five-year-olds, one who lived in a place called ‘Oregano’, and who just adored children whose name starts with ‘R’. So, essentially a monster hand-tailored to scare my brother. And then, as the icing on the metaphorical cake, I told him that he was invisible, except for one feature. A large, flashing, orange eye. You can see where this is going. While he was down there, shivering in fear after hearing this tale about a monster, I was taking out the blinker from under my pillow and uttering the words that would then scar him for life. ‘And the only way you know he is there is from seeing his orange, blinking eye. But, by the time you see it, it’s already too late.’
Then I brought out the blinker, turned it on, and held it right over his head.