Tired Trope Amalgam
Our character is awakened by an alarm clock. She gets ready to go to a job where she is under appreciated, if not invisible. On her way out of the house, the person she lives with has prepared a breakfast buffet of which she takes one bite of one strawberry and rushes out, quipping something about “running late”.
We learn that our character is an avid runner. Not for the health aspect, but because she is running from her memories of some distant sad thing (cut scene to a terminally ill mystery person and/or a funeral in the rain—there is always rain).
She’ll go shopping at some point. The obligatory phallic form of naked French bread protrudes from the top of her grocery bag along with some random greens because no shopping trip is complete without them, apparently.
She will be kidnapped by men in suits and sunglasses. They render her unconscious, usually by an injection of some chemical sort. They toss her into a black SUV (bad guys purchase them by the fleet, you know).
She will come to in a mysterious location where it is explained to her that she is “the one” they need for a super-sensitive mission (save the world!). She is then able to hack into a sophisticated, multi-layer government mainframe with not problem whatsoever.
It then comes to everyone’s attention that “someone” is needed to break into an ultra-secure facility to access some key technical device. The team then squints at our character and they nod.
She just happens to be the final boss’ type, so a quick makeover is performed. She sheds her nerdy persona and is suddenly a knockout, ready to seduce her way into said facility.
Eventually, we find our heroine running in high heels and carjacking a European sports car, which she is able to drive like a demon. Cue the screaming pedestrians and hapless fruit stands.
She’ll crash, be uninjured. There's something counting down with red numbers (extra points for beeping). She finishes the mission. Is offered a job (clandestine, of course) with this alphabet agency (gotta leave that door for possible sequels open) and goes about her “ordinary” life.
The End.
Yawn.
Okay, yes I know… A lot of these are found in film, but when I see them applied in print, it makes me want to throw the book across the room.
My Brother’s Keeper
“It’s getting hot. Let me drive you guys.” My mom called from her home office.
“You know, I could always drive… the library is not that far…” I had to try.
“Nope. It’s only a permit. Besides, you know you can’t drive with your brother in the car.”
Crap. It’s only two weeks until my driver’s license appointment.
“Okay," I sigh loudly "We’re hoofin’ it. No big deal.”
“Wear hats and take water bottles. Text me when you get there. Keep an eye on your brother.” She pleaded, peeking her head out of her office doorway.
Like I wouldn’t. It’s all I ever do: keep an eye on The Oblivious One. My mom clings to worry like a talisman. As if letting it slip from her hands meant inviting “something bad” to happen.
“Okay, Safety Sue…” I mumbled under my breath, walking away.
“I heard that.”
Wow. How did she even hear that? Her hearing is as stellar as ever.
“Love you, Mom.”
“Bye Momma!” My little brother called out in his annoying Texan twang as we left. His voice had changed recently, but it still cracked in strange places when he spoke. Freaking hilarious when it did. And when is he going to stop calling her “Momma”, like a baby? Gross.
Dear God, please tell me I was not that awkward when I was that age.
We walked out of our planned community and onto the main road. Four lanes and a center turning lane. I wished I were driving instead.
I heard the honking ahead of us before I could see what was happening. The danger soon came into view. A white, flatbed work-type truck was driving erratically and too fast. Weaving into oncoming traffic, traveling in our direction.
SHIT. No time.No time.No time.
I looked at my brother, walking slowly—always so damn slow! Fumbling with his water bottle lid. Not even paying attention to his surroundings as usual! Can he not hear the commotion?! I felt instant annoyance and gripping fear.
Unless the truck suddenly did something completing unexpected and even possibly defied physics, it was going to hit us. Immediately. I thought about Trig class. Yeah. I didn’t need any fancy calculations right now to tell me we were about to get crushed.
No time.No time. We’re about to die RIGHT NOW.
I grabbed my little brother by the scruff of his t-shirt and by the back waist of his jeans. I hefted his thin body roughly over the guardrail on our right, swearing at myself for skipping the bench press lately. He let out a strangled, mixed cry of surprise and anger. His cry quickly morphed into noises of pain as he landed, tumbling violently down a slight embankment.
Tuck and roll, bro. Protect your face and head. We’ll worry about the rest later.
I heard the truck’s engine nearing as I remembered that hurdles were not my event. Turns out, they’re even harder to pull off from a standing position. I didn’t clear it. My left foot caught on the guardrail. I tensed up, not knowing which impact to expect first: the ground or the speeding truck.
Time’s up.
I know a lot of people say their lives flash before their eyes when they are in mortal danger. That wasn’t the case for me. Besides rapid-fire associations having to do with the immediate situation at hand, all my memories were of my little brother:
Feeding him as a baby.
Helping him take his first wobbly steps.
Cutting food in half and giving him the smaller piece.
Pushing him on the swings at the park.
Me taking his Legos.
Him taking my Naruto books.
My jealousy of how he could pick up any instrument and play it skillfully.
The two of us sneaking candy into the movie theater.
Laughing at stupid videos together on family road trips.
All I knew at that moment was that I could not let anything happen to him. I didn’t even think of myself for once. I thought of the worry in my mom’s eyes this morning before we left. I thought of how I’d rather die than have to tell her I had lost my little brother.
I tumbled hard as the sound of twisting metal and splintering wood took residence in my ears alongside the pounding whoosh of my rapid pulse. I had come to rest in a patch of fading bluebonnets, hurting, but alive. My little brother was now sitting up, rubbing his bloody elbow and taking inventory of the damage to his knee. He looked around for his glasses that had been knocked off during his fall. I hurt all over, but I’d take a look at my injuries later. I helped my brother to his feet. People were now gathering around the accident scene on the hillside just above us, trying to help the trapped driver, and calling for EMS.
“Whoa… Momma’s gonna freak OUT, right?”
I paused, wondering if there was any way we could NOT tell her. Negative.
“You bet your ass she will. You have no idea.”
Sequela
You told me the truth. I should have listened:
“I’m radioactive dog shit to women.”
At the time, I chided you for saying such a terrible thing about yourself. However, I would eventually learn the truth. I had all the puzzle pieces in my possession, I just didn’t realize it yet. I am a bit slow in areas of the heart. Even when logic is screaming right in my Pollyanna face.
When I did snap those pieces together, the picture sickened me.
You hate all women. They are either “demonic”, borderline personality disordered, narcissistic feminists (your favorite way to diagnose every female around you), or they are insipid, bleating sheep. You hate them all.
Click
You are at odds with everyone in every single area of your life, but curiously, it’s never by your doing. At odds with your work, your church, your family, your ex, your kids, your friends, and society in general. But somehow, it’s always THEM. You have zero self-accountability. None.
Click
You engaged someone in a shared incestuous fantasy with possibly even pedophilic undertones with no regret. You eagerly became one of her many “pets” when a morally upright and psychologically sound MAN would have blocked an individual like that immediately as soon as he realized what was going on with her. When confronted, you became defensive, “It’s in the aether,” you said. You were quick to downplay the gravity and implications of your sick compulsions. You are both sick fucks and should seek help. Yes, this revelation was the ultimate deal-breaker for me. I cannot and will not associate with this depravity.
Click
We don’t speak any longer (thank God) and I’m sure if anyone were to ask you, I was 100% the problem. You’d tell them how I ended up being a covert narcissist and tricked you. Yes… Go ahead and place me on that huge shelf alongside every other evil woman who has ever wronged you in your poor, victimized life.
I'm not perfect, but I own every tender morsel of my bullshit. I don't cower behind the perceived ill actions of others or behind circumstances. I OWN what's mine. The weak-minded make excuses and hide.
I’ve scraped the memory of you off on the curb and on the lawn the best I could, but I ended up throwing those shoes away anyhow. The nausea comes in waves. The sight of your name in print, or hearing it spoken makes me fight the urge to vomit. Sequela of the initial exposure.
The radiation dose was not fatal. However, it was more than enough to sicken me.
