The Little Red Car

As I left the burning playground, that hated playground, behind me, I turned and saw one little, ugly, colorful toy staring at me.

One little, ugly, red metal car on a spring.

Who would have ever thought something like that could be fun?

And why was it that other children got all the fun? Why couldn’t I have had fun when I was a kid? Why did my parents, my evil parents, lock me in my room and hit me if I was bad? If I didn’t eat my vegetables? If I didn’t clean my room fast enough?

Why was I forced to sit in my room, alone, staring at the other children across the street having fun, swinging, sliding, playing tag?

Why me? Was it that little, fateful playground across the street that led me to take a knife and stab my father? My ugly, angry father? And was it my mother’s pitiful whimpers when she saw the new, powerful creature that had taken hold of me that led me to kill her, too? Why hadn’t they let me play with the little car?

I left the playground behind me in flames, and the little red car stared.

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