You Wound Me, Styles
Aunt Elizer Clement
My scatter-brained creature of a mother finally found out about Facebook.
Now, there was nothing awfully wrong with that, not at all, except for the fact that she finally discovered the whereabouts of dear Auntie Elizer.
My aunt resided somewhere in Holmes Chapel, England, we later found out, and she claimed the she would “adore the company of distant relatives”.
It was the punch line of a serial killer in disguise, but my mother was so flattered as to bite in and accept.
Just in case, I did my memory check. From my childhood recollection, Aunt Elizer seemed to have almost always given me pocket money for ice cream.
But that was about as far as my memory could jog. Everything else about the woman was vague, even her profile picture on Facebook.
I had nothing against moving into the same house as Aunt Elizer, honestly.
However, the simple thought of moving from a fine childhood home all the way to a foreign country that I hadn’t even stepped on since birth was a little nerve-wracking.
So, you see, I made a letter for my dearest mother—an attempt in persuading her out of moving to England. I was quite fond of my life here in dainty old Quebec, and moving out would naturally be a big no-no.
My Dearest Beloved,
My piggy-bank and I have come to the consensus of eloping and residing somewhere remote and completely out of your tyrannical reach. It was not I who forced this upon me, my dearest mother.
Remember that.
Instead, it was you who has rained utter misery onto me and gradually forced me into abandoning you by your lonesome.
I have always thought you produced the crappiest mashed potato anyway. Seriously, dearest momma, who eats that shit?
Although I will miss the diurnal free sheltering and caring of yours, I shall bid you adieu. My piggy-bank promises me a brighter future, particularly one without England in the picture.
I will never forget you, though it irks me so. I shall now declare my independence with Mr. Piggy.
Au revoir, ma mere.
P.S. Never neglect the daily dusting of my fuzzy pair slippers, also known as Mr. Flippity Flops.
My silly mother got a pretty good laugh out of reading my supposedly serious letter. It wasn't until after twilight when she realized I was being serious. About running away, I mean.
She caught me shoving a stolen Twix bar down my throat, and I had never seen my momma so livid.
I had only managed to run a couple of blocks away, carrying nothing but a light backpack (my piggy bank was overweight, so I left it behind), but my mother could run like hell if she tried.
And so I was in deep, absolute shit.
We had settled down in my Aunt Elizer's house—a small, apartment with a bright green front door that looked freshly painted.
It was awful of me to blame poor England and pour my hatred on it, but I had nothing else to hate on.
For me, it was easier that way.
My mother hadn't spoken to me since the day I tried to run away. She held a grudge against my insulting her mashed potatoes. I was more concerned about offending the potato, to be quite frank.
It wasn't long when I decided to take a stroll outside and screw things up. Being a nuisance to society was my specialty, after all.
I found an adorable little bakery across the street (W. Mandeville, Holmes Chapel: Traditional Craft Bakers, it said), and instinct told me to go inside. So I did.
My nostrils immediately indulged in the smell of fresh-baked pastries the minute I stepped foot inside. I had money on me, so I decided it wouldn't hurt to try something with my taste buds.
A guy with a mass of brown curls on his head welcomed me with a playful smile. His eyes were especially hard to ignore, a blazing thorn of green.
I tried to keep a straight face. "I'd like some English muffins, please," I smiled, faking a British accent.
There was a long pause, and he looked at me weird. I quickly stressed on whether I had a booger on my face or whatever because he just looked at me weird.
I looked around awkwardly, probably blushing, waiting for the uneasy silence to just fade.
"Coming right up," he finally said, adding a dazzling smile instantly. He handed me a beautifully wrapped pack of English muffins in no time.
As I handed him my money, he asked, "You're not from here, are you?"
I shook my head hesitantly. "No, I'm from the... northern region."
"I thought you weren't from here." He kept on his grin. "I could tell from your accent." He winked.
Then it dawned on me. He saw through my fake British accent. I was very mortified. “Um, yeah, thanks for the food,” I said in my normal Canadian voice, lunging for the door.
I came home to an empty apartment. My mom must have begun her work as a teacher in some school around the corner. I double-checked the stove top and found only a pot full of mashed potatoes, all ready to be eaten.
Oh, mom. You crazy woman.
I shuffled to the living room and switched on the telly, eventually getting absorbed in some Skins episode. I munched on some crisps and relished the flavour in my mouth.
It was a beautiful thing, eating.
As I resumed watching the telly, my mind drifted, as per usual. I began pondering over the thought of how toenails were pointless and useless.
I thought about naming the next crisp I was about to eat Mr. Boobeeh. I mulled over how easily seduced my nose was when food was about a kilometre away.
I had thoughts about how the word “sexy” could be used to describe objects, resulting in: “that is one sexy toenail”, “whatta sexy piggy bank”, and "you sexy doorknob, you".
I questioned the existence of praying mantises, why they looked like were about to say, “Luke, I am your father” whenever I saw their huge-ass eyes.
I thought of learning how to be a unicorn when I grew up.
In shorter words, I thought of everything, but things normal.
“Rose!” Aunt Elizer greeted, padding across the shag carpet floors. “Come in, come in. Don’t be shy.”
She seemed to have been talking to someone else, but I was glued to the show on t.v. Maxxie was apologizing for being a slut in the show. I almost cried for joy.
And at that moment, I should have simply not switched on the telly today.
I shouldn’t have been stuffing my mouth to see how much junk could fit in it.
I shouldn’t have worn my over-sized t-shirt with that massive hole on the side.
No, I should have been dressed decently, perched up on the couch with great posture, reading a sensible book, because a teenage boy has finally entered the Clement household.
“Rose, come meet Harry,” Aunt Elizer said. “He’s a nice boy, I promise.”
Now, there was nothing awfully wrong with that, not at all, except for the fact that she finally discovered the whereabouts of dear Auntie Elizer.
My aunt resided somewhere in Holmes Chapel, England, we later found out, and she claimed the she would “adore the company of distant relatives”.
It was the punch line of a serial killer in disguise, but my mother was so flattered as to bite in and accept.
Just in case, I did my memory check. From my childhood recollection, Aunt Elizer seemed to have almost always given me pocket money for ice cream.
But that was about as far as my memory could jog. Everything else about the woman was vague, even her profile picture on Facebook.
I had nothing against moving into the same house as Aunt Elizer, honestly.
However, the simple thought of moving from a fine childhood home all the way to a foreign country that I hadn’t even stepped on since birth was a little nerve-wracking.
So, you see, I made a letter for my dearest mother—an attempt in persuading her out of moving to England. I was quite fond of my life here in dainty old Quebec, and moving out would naturally be a big no-no.
My Dearest Beloved,
My piggy-bank and I have come to the consensus of eloping and residing somewhere remote and completely out of your tyrannical reach. It was not I who forced this upon me, my dearest mother.
Remember that.
Instead, it was you who has rained utter misery onto me and gradually forced me into abandoning you by your lonesome.
I have always thought you produced the crappiest mashed potato anyway. Seriously, dearest momma, who eats that shit?
Although I will miss the diurnal free sheltering and caring of yours, I shall bid you adieu. My piggy-bank promises me a brighter future, particularly one without England in the picture.
I will never forget you, though it irks me so. I shall now declare my independence with Mr. Piggy.
Au revoir, ma mere.
P.S. Never neglect the daily dusting of my fuzzy pair slippers, also known as Mr. Flippity Flops.
My silly mother got a pretty good laugh out of reading my supposedly serious letter. It wasn't until after twilight when she realized I was being serious. About running away, I mean.
She caught me shoving a stolen Twix bar down my throat, and I had never seen my momma so livid.
I had only managed to run a couple of blocks away, carrying nothing but a light backpack (my piggy bank was overweight, so I left it behind), but my mother could run like hell if she tried.
And so I was in deep, absolute shit.
We had settled down in my Aunt Elizer's house—a small, apartment with a bright green front door that looked freshly painted.
It was awful of me to blame poor England and pour my hatred on it, but I had nothing else to hate on.
For me, it was easier that way.
My mother hadn't spoken to me since the day I tried to run away. She held a grudge against my insulting her mashed potatoes. I was more concerned about offending the potato, to be quite frank.
It wasn't long when I decided to take a stroll outside and screw things up. Being a nuisance to society was my specialty, after all.
I found an adorable little bakery across the street (W. Mandeville, Holmes Chapel: Traditional Craft Bakers, it said), and instinct told me to go inside. So I did.
My nostrils immediately indulged in the smell of fresh-baked pastries the minute I stepped foot inside. I had money on me, so I decided it wouldn't hurt to try something with my taste buds.
A guy with a mass of brown curls on his head welcomed me with a playful smile. His eyes were especially hard to ignore, a blazing thorn of green.
I tried to keep a straight face. "I'd like some English muffins, please," I smiled, faking a British accent.
There was a long pause, and he looked at me weird. I quickly stressed on whether I had a booger on my face or whatever because he just looked at me weird.
I looked around awkwardly, probably blushing, waiting for the uneasy silence to just fade.
"Coming right up," he finally said, adding a dazzling smile instantly. He handed me a beautifully wrapped pack of English muffins in no time.
As I handed him my money, he asked, "You're not from here, are you?"
I shook my head hesitantly. "No, I'm from the... northern region."
"I thought you weren't from here." He kept on his grin. "I could tell from your accent." He winked.
Then it dawned on me. He saw through my fake British accent. I was very mortified. “Um, yeah, thanks for the food,” I said in my normal Canadian voice, lunging for the door.
I came home to an empty apartment. My mom must have begun her work as a teacher in some school around the corner. I double-checked the stove top and found only a pot full of mashed potatoes, all ready to be eaten.
Oh, mom. You crazy woman.
I shuffled to the living room and switched on the telly, eventually getting absorbed in some Skins episode. I munched on some crisps and relished the flavour in my mouth.
It was a beautiful thing, eating.
As I resumed watching the telly, my mind drifted, as per usual. I began pondering over the thought of how toenails were pointless and useless.
I thought about naming the next crisp I was about to eat Mr. Boobeeh. I mulled over how easily seduced my nose was when food was about a kilometre away.
I had thoughts about how the word “sexy” could be used to describe objects, resulting in: “that is one sexy toenail”, “whatta sexy piggy bank”, and "you sexy doorknob, you".
I questioned the existence of praying mantises, why they looked like were about to say, “Luke, I am your father” whenever I saw their huge-ass eyes.
I thought of learning how to be a unicorn when I grew up.
In shorter words, I thought of everything, but things normal.
“Rose!” Aunt Elizer greeted, padding across the shag carpet floors. “Come in, come in. Don’t be shy.”
She seemed to have been talking to someone else, but I was glued to the show on t.v. Maxxie was apologizing for being a slut in the show. I almost cried for joy.
And at that moment, I should have simply not switched on the telly today.
I shouldn’t have been stuffing my mouth to see how much junk could fit in it.
I shouldn’t have worn my over-sized t-shirt with that massive hole on the side.
No, I should have been dressed decently, perched up on the couch with great posture, reading a sensible book, because a teenage boy has finally entered the Clement household.
“Rose, come meet Harry,” Aunt Elizer said. “He’s a nice boy, I promise.”
