Alright Dudes and Dudettes, the time has come. Brace yourselves for the final installation of Lies I’ve Told. I haven’t covered even half of my many schemes of yesteryear, you know what they say about too much of a good thing. So here it is, the last of the major lies I’ve told, and buckle up because this is probably the worst thing I’ve ever done in my life and because of this event, I now know what awaits me on judgement day. Names have been changed to protect the innocent.
When I was 14 years old, I had an unnatural penchant for cruelty. I mean, I wasn’t one of those kids that would light ants on fire or anything, but I definitely enjoyed the finer things in life like making people cry. Usually I reserved this bloodlust for kids at my school or boys I liked, but it proved to be a particularly slow summer for me that year and I found an unlikely victim in my sister Rachel.
Rachel was only 10 years old and, being the sweet baby angel that she was, still believed in goodness and truth. Which means she had no idea what to do when the chaotic evil that resides within me set its sights on her.
When school was out in the quaint northern Virginia town we lived in, there was little to do but wander through the heavily wooded areas and explore while our parents were off working in the city. One day my older sister (and co-conspirator) Bianca and I decided it would be the funniest thing in the world if we convinced Rachel that we had to run away from home. There was no reason to do this other than we were bored and drama was as nourishing to me as mother’s milk.
So, we took Rachel on a walk through the woods with us and about a mile or so away from our house we informed her of the terrible news: Our parents decided they no longer wanted her and she had to run away and find a new family to live with. Harsh, right? Naturally, Rachel began sobbing uncontrollably. Lucky for her, Bianca and I decided out of the goodness in our hearts that we would go with her until she found this new home. We did our best to console her like the little psychopaths we were and when we finally calmed her down, we decided to begin her “wilderness training” right away.
The training in question was really just entry-level torture. We made her do push-ups and sprints to help her “build stamina” in case she had to run away from bears and other wildlife that was certain to attack her when she was on her own. We made her practice animal mating calls and even tried to build a bed out of leaves for her to sleep on. As if all that abuse wasn’t enough, the pièce de résistance: we made her eat a shit ton of grass. We told her she had no chance of survival if she couldn’t learn how to throw back a few blades of grass for nourishment!! To our surprise (and I’m ashamed to say, glee) she ate a handful right there in front of us. And that, my friends, was the beginning of the end.
In a matter of minutes the combination of the heat, physical exertion, lack of water, and excess of ingested grass made Rachel violently ill. I’m talking vomit, everywhere. The game was officially over and we rushed her home immediately. A glass of water, a PB&J, and the reassurance she wasn’t being abandoned by her family for no reason proved to be the trick for Rachel. Unfortunately, she told my parents everything and words can’t even describe the amount of hell I (rightfully) received from them.
But ya know, it’s been eight years and Rachel seems to be doing fine—give or take a few emotional scars—and I’ve come to terms with the fact that there’s probably a VIP section of hell with my name on the list.
See y’all there, I guess!