My College Essay

Bottled Violence

Kathryn Holmstrom

The summer heat was white with hate that day, and the sun shone down its objection of mankind, just far enough away from its fiery grasp to continue to produce life. The grass was damp and sodden with the coarse pounding of the thousands of insects hidden beneath it, and as I dressed myself I could hear the whizzing of June bugs tapping themselves against my window, a calamitous attempt at sanctuary.

The sound of my mother cleaning chickens filled the house that morning, so that the kitchen rang with the methodic squish and thud of their already rotting entrails slamming into the bottom of our metal trash can. At twelve years old, the carnage of the task both intrigued and disturbed me, and as I sat entranced, watching her, I was reminded of all that I had done in prospect of this moment. All of the mistakes I had made, how selfish I had been, and how our family’s situation had reflected my actions. The heart came out as shriveled and gray as I felt, beaten and won by infectious bacteria that it could have fought if it were still alive.

My bags lay packed by the front door, ready to be jammed into the car and driven three hundred miles from any place I called home. Looking around at the kitchen and everything I had destroyed, I sighed in a desperate attempt at relief from the guilt that every day sunk further into my heart. My mother smiled at me, a sad smile that made my guts cringe with the shame in receiving it. I didn’t deserve her love or her sympathy, and I turned away from her reprieve that told me, “I’m sorry.”

After that grave night when I finally realized the damage my father had done to himself and my mother, I began to lose faith in myself, my abilities, and the strength of all humanity to persevere in their small lives. If such venomous habits presented themselves in the way of all men, what would make me any different? The stench of alcohol and the words that spewed from its hindering discounted any belief I had otherwise, and my expectations of the life ahead of me grew exceedingly dim. I ate less, slept more, didn’t try in class, and failed the seventh grade. If I had still been attending school after that year, my parents would have had a reason not to uproot us and relocate because of their jobs.

I stood trapped in the kitchen with my failings and my back turned on all of the disappointment. The harsh sun flooded through the window, threatening us to come no closer, but at that moment I could think of nothing better for the world than to take that one last leap into oblivion. Then, at least, we could be free from our sins.

I used to feel like those bereft of life, like those cleaned chickens. Once vernal and ignorant, then dead and cavernous, emptied of everything that once made it move and walk and think. Our puny lives seemed to be moving along a slow assembly line, pigeon-holed and uniform, with nothing to look forward to except a harsh chlorine bath and the sweet release of death. I used to feel like my life was insignificant and navigable to those mistakes I witnessed as a child. I had given up, and by doing that, I had ensured my retentiveness to those banal traits.

Years later now, I have returned home and to everything I left behind, and to see more clearly what I have become. What I have realized is that I am nothing like I expected. I have finally fought and tried for something better than the example presented to me at twelve, ten, eight years old. I am not prey to the hollow disease of addiction, and I have not ignored but honed my talents in search of a fulfilling career devoid of monotony, resentment and bitterness. I do not find myself subjected to just one choice but many, and I plan to live my life as if I asked for it.