A Realistic Fictional Work Written in the First Person to Educate Others on What to Do
It was a stormy night when I first came to grips with the horror that lay ahead.
Everybody loved Uncle Jack, but not me, at least not since IT happened. And it was every since IT happened that I knew for certainty when this day came that I would be frightened to the edge of my being. For it is on this day, every year for as long as I can remember, that Uncle Jack and I would take our camping jaunt to the Catskill Mountains.
Uncle Jack was on my father's side, and a real joker to the end. When we would come together on Thanksgiving it was always he who would take the reins of the dinner conversation, leading us through wave after wave of laughter until our sides felt like bursting. He would go into such detail with each story, so well bringing it to a conclusion with his epic punch lines, that there was no escaping a snicker or two. But there is no more humor now, as I pack my bag dreaming of how it must feel to be a bird, and capable of flying away whenever you wished.
I have this inswallowable lump caught in my throat which keeps me from talking properly. It always agitates me when someone asks, "Hey, are you okay?" Forced to answer, I will scrounge up a, "Uh-huh, I'm fine," but I always stutter it out thanks to the infernal lump impeding my speech. Each time I stutter it out I get so angry with myself I can bite the head off of whoever asks it, but really, I am furious with Uncle Jack. Even when I say his name my face turns sullen, as if I have deprived myself of sleep for days. And now, with each brutal shove of clothes into my bag, I feel helplessly hurtling to an inevitably immeasurably humiliating experience. This is my story of how I handled what my Uncle dealt.
My father, Tom Barnold, and my hideously grinning Uncle Jack entered my room.
"You could at...