So i've been in a mild state of depression these past couple of days...My moms in the hospital, ive been sick (tonsil infection) and not to mention i'm broke.. So I was searching through my yahoo mailbox for something when I came across this story I wrote in the 10th grade. It made me laugh and just appreciate all that I have now. Even though its not much, ive come a long way. This is a true story..
THE RAT HOUSE
The rat house. These three words are the best that come to mind when trying to describe that building on South Orange Avenue. We only lived in the rat infested apartment for about a month, but every second there was horrendous. The walls seemed to be painted in a nice peach color, under the rust and crayon marks. The wooden floor creaked as if it would cave in at any moment and the ceiling was already ahead of it. The one thing that I remember the most about that house was this hole in the kitchen wall. It was about the size of a toilet bowl and reeked like one too. Every once in a while, it would leak really badly and cascade all over our semi-clean floor. My sisters would try and run and play in the disgusting brown water. I was always responsible for keeping them from within splashing distance and warning my mother. “The ceiling is raining again!” I would shout out to her with my two sisters in my arms reaching toward the ceiling. I swear if I was not around and they were by themselves, they would have all kinds of health problems today.
It was terrible. I can’t forget the time that I had gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. I was very careful upon entering, considering my past experiences in that apartment in those short two weeks. I had already been shocked out of the tub by a “daddy-long-legs” spider, barely chased up to the top bunk of the bed ( which I shared with my sisters) by a mouse, and trampled by a pit-bull that was always tied up, supposedly, in the hallway. What’s the worst that could possibly happen now? I closed the door and wiped the cold out of my eye in the mirror. I saw something move in the mirror, but then again I was half sleeping. I felt something smooth rub against my foot. I looked down and became hysterical. “A RAT!! A RAT!! A RAT!!” I ran screaming throughout the small apartment awakening my mother, and two little sisters. My mother hugged me and tried to calm me down, as my sisters giggled at the performance. I was becoming fed up and annoyed at the situation. A nine-year old should not have to deal with conditions like that, especially a girl. Boys loved disgusting things like rats, mice, and spiders, but all of those things made my stomach churn.
Luckily, my performance and appearance at school were not reflections of my situation at home; I knew if anyone found out where I lived I would be the laughing stalk of the classroom. Whenever one of my friends asked to visit my house I would kindly decline, telling them that my house was being renovated or rebuilt. Whenever one of my friends parents offered me a ride home I always told them I’d rather walk, when lord knows I hated treading down those 5 and a half blocks with my fully loaded book bag. I can safely say my home situation was cleanly under wraps until one day a kid in my class named Jose saw me coming out of the building. He quickly sped down the street on his bike with a grin on his face. I knew it was going to be trouble when I got to class on Monday, and it surely was. When I walked into class, everyone started giggling and smiling unusually. I sat down in my normal seat, but the girl that usually sits next to me was on the other side of the room. Jose had told everyone where I lived. Throughout the teacher’s lesson on multiplying double digit numbers, someone would snicker or whisper “rat house” under their breath. I felt the class closing in on me and, oddly, I wished I could go home early. At the end of the day I went to see my teacher to talk to her about what was going on. Before I could even get the words out of my mouth she said “It’s ok Fianah, living in the rat house is not as bad as it seems. You just have to focus in class and wash your hands two times as often.” I stared at here blankly while thinking “Did she really just call my building the rat house?”. Now I was only nine years old but I was pretty sure that that was not how the conversation was supposed to go.
I came home later on that evening and told my mom what had happened. She laughed hysterically. Then she cried. We all decided that day that it was time to move on and out. Although my mom was not sure where we could go, my sisters and I assured her that any place would be better than the rat house.
THE RAT HOUSE
The rat house. These three words are the best that come to mind when trying to describe that building on South Orange Avenue. We only lived in the rat infested apartment for about a month, but every second there was horrendous. The walls seemed to be painted in a nice peach color, under the rust and crayon marks. The wooden floor creaked as if it would cave in at any moment and the ceiling was already ahead of it. The one thing that I remember the most about that house was this hole in the kitchen wall. It was about the size of a toilet bowl and reeked like one too. Every once in a while, it would leak really badly and cascade all over our semi-clean floor. My sisters would try and run and play in the disgusting brown water. I was always responsible for keeping them from within splashing distance and warning my mother. “The ceiling is raining again!” I would shout out to her with my two sisters in my arms reaching toward the ceiling. I swear if I was not around and they were by themselves, they would have all kinds of health problems today.
It was terrible. I can’t forget the time that I had gotten up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. I was very careful upon entering, considering my past experiences in that apartment in those short two weeks. I had already been shocked out of the tub by a “daddy-long-legs” spider, barely chased up to the top bunk of the bed ( which I shared with my sisters) by a mouse, and trampled by a pit-bull that was always tied up, supposedly, in the hallway. What’s the worst that could possibly happen now? I closed the door and wiped the cold out of my eye in the mirror. I saw something move in the mirror, but then again I was half sleeping. I felt something smooth rub against my foot. I looked down and became hysterical. “A RAT!! A RAT!! A RAT!!” I ran screaming throughout the small apartment awakening my mother, and two little sisters. My mother hugged me and tried to calm me down, as my sisters giggled at the performance. I was becoming fed up and annoyed at the situation. A nine-year old should not have to deal with conditions like that, especially a girl. Boys loved disgusting things like rats, mice, and spiders, but all of those things made my stomach churn.
Luckily, my performance and appearance at school were not reflections of my situation at home; I knew if anyone found out where I lived I would be the laughing stalk of the classroom. Whenever one of my friends asked to visit my house I would kindly decline, telling them that my house was being renovated or rebuilt. Whenever one of my friends parents offered me a ride home I always told them I’d rather walk, when lord knows I hated treading down those 5 and a half blocks with my fully loaded book bag. I can safely say my home situation was cleanly under wraps until one day a kid in my class named Jose saw me coming out of the building. He quickly sped down the street on his bike with a grin on his face. I knew it was going to be trouble when I got to class on Monday, and it surely was. When I walked into class, everyone started giggling and smiling unusually. I sat down in my normal seat, but the girl that usually sits next to me was on the other side of the room. Jose had told everyone where I lived. Throughout the teacher’s lesson on multiplying double digit numbers, someone would snicker or whisper “rat house” under their breath. I felt the class closing in on me and, oddly, I wished I could go home early. At the end of the day I went to see my teacher to talk to her about what was going on. Before I could even get the words out of my mouth she said “It’s ok Fianah, living in the rat house is not as bad as it seems. You just have to focus in class and wash your hands two times as often.” I stared at here blankly while thinking “Did she really just call my building the rat house?”. Now I was only nine years old but I was pretty sure that that was not how the conversation was supposed to go.
I came home later on that evening and told my mom what had happened. She laughed hysterically. Then she cried. We all decided that day that it was time to move on and out. Although my mom was not sure where we could go, my sisters and I assured her that any place would be better than the rat house.
Post a Comment