Looking back on my childhood, the first memory of significance that is
applicable to give insight to how differently thoughts circulate through my
mind, would have to be the first time I broke into someone’s home. I was 11
years old, living in a secluded subdivision of a little town called Welfare.
There were only about 10 homes in the entire neighborhood which spanned across about
300 acres.
Next door was the Hinajosa family about a quarter-mile down the
road. They had a son named Martin who I became close friends with, considering
he was the only child my age that lived anywhere near me. Martin was what you
would call different. To give an objective perspective on him I should say that
he has since been institutionalized since the age of 18. We would do things
like build forts and pretend to be soldiers, then ninjas, then . . . the
sneakiness began. Leading to the inevitable breaking and entering. First at our
own homes while family was home because then if we got caught, well, it was
family and we were just kids messing around. During the infant stages we would
tweak our methods, and then it got boring working so hard to be quiet and
sneaky only to end up back in your own room. Next came other people’s homes,
the first home was a nice 2 story home about 2 miles up the road.
The family
was having a barbeque on the side of their house right outside the garage. So
we snuck around to the opposite side of the house and determined that the front
door was the best point of entry considering the fact that the door in the rear
opened into the dining room/kitchen. I stayed on the opposite side of the house
and waited for martin to swing around towards the family to make sure that they
were all outside. Once he gave the signal I proceeded through the front door,
pulse pounding at the thought that someone would be right inside the door to
catch me. But none such person was seen, once in I went straight for the stairs
located about 10 feet ahead and to the right. Quietly moving upstairs I felt as
if I were entering another world. A world where people lived a completely
different lifestyle than I had ever seen. Not that I had much of a frame of
reference of how other people lived since I was raised homeschooled and had
very few friends. Walking through the halls of the second floor I absorbed all
that I could, so different, strange photographs of people I had never met and
hopefully would never see in real life. As I explored my way through the second
bedroom I heard the door from what I guessed was from the garage open and shut.
I froze for a moment, and then quickly made my way into the closet. The closet
wasn’t a walk in but left just enough space for a small body to stand between
the doors and the hanging clothes. Footsteps came up the stairs, first thought,
Im caught, then, reason. How could they know I was here? Unless Martin told
them, no, he wouldn’t, I mean, he’s crazy but not in that way. The steps
reached the hallway of the second floor where I was no less than 60 seconds
prior. Knowing that sent adrenaline pounding through my veins, I could have
sworn they could hear my heartbeat. The steps came into the room heart pounding
even louder, my mind, frantically calm. The person walked right past the closet
and to the nightstand, picked something off of it then retreated down the steps
and out the same door heard just minutes before. At the sound of the door
shutting I exited the closet and quickly made my way down the steps as a snake
would if it had legs. Passing back through without looking back to see if
anyone was there only from sheer terror to what I might see. If it were
something terrible, I would know shortly, no noise no yelling just the sound of
my footsteps though the grass and back to the side of the house. Then out into
the woods to circle around to the street where I knew Martin would be waiting.
He was there, then we walked down the road and passed the house I was just in.
waving to that family as we passed I felt victory. This was just the beginning
of a very strange sequence of event that I claim as my life.
