I was only eight years old when my parents left me to attend a dinner party. There was no advanced notice involved only a quick hug, kiss, and command to obey Miss Yates while they were gone. Miss Yates was my eighty year old babysitter who was about in that stage of her life where SHE would be needing her own seniorsitter.

But that time isn’t tonight. Tonight she’s watching me as I sit in my father’s recliner viewing Poltergeist for the very first time. I’m at the scene where the clown doll comes alive when I decide to go check on Miss Yates. She’s getting ready to boil up some Mac & Cheese and asks me if I’d fill the pot with water for her. Knowing that I’m not allowed to use the stove but failing to mention it I do as commanded and quizzically look at the stove top to determine where to place the water. Afraid of showing my childlike ignorance I decide not to ask which burner is on but to test them myself. Placing my hand on the top left burner I feel the cool touch of metal on my palm. Moving down one I feel the same coolness and continue to the top right corner. Still….nothing.

My mind has yet to grasp the concept of elimination so I confidently set my hand down on the bottom right burner foolishly expecting nothing to happen. As I place my hand on it a dark alarming flash of pain courses throughout my right hand doing laps at an excessive rate. Within a second the house is filled with my screams of agony as I grab my wrist and stare open mouthed at the red spiral mark I have ingeniously just created. Standing there in the kitchen holding my injured appendage in a frozen moment of high pitched screeching agony I’m suddenly grabbed by the Yates woman and thrust under a waterfall of cool relief. Our kitchen sink has never pleasured me so sensually and I doubt that it ever will. “What were you thinking?” Miss Yates yelled, needlessly restraining my arm under the sink. “I wasn’t,” was my reply as I felt tears descend from my eyes. “Well maybe you should try to once in a while. Here,” she said handing me a long plastic cup. “fill this with cold water and keep your hand in it. It won’t burn so much then.” I turn back to the sink trying to wipe the tears from my eyes with my shoulder. As I fill the cup up there’s a loud thud from behind me sending a shockwave throughout the kitchen.

Surprised, scared, and a little concerned I turn around to see my babysitter lying face first on our kitchen tile. “Oh my God I burned myself and killed the babysitter!” I scream at the house. Realizing that I’m in a bad situation I think about my alternatives. “I should call the police,” is the first thought that pops into my head. “But what if they blame it on you,” is the rebuttal my mind has selected. “They’d tell your parents that you murdered the babysitter, burned your hand, and used the stove without permission.” Knowing that I have no choice in the matter I do what any other eight year old would do. I start digging a hole in my sandbox. “She’s a Miss,” I say aloud as I dig with my one good hand, “that means she doesn’t have a husband. If she doesn’t have a husband then she can’t have any/a family!”

The reasoning behind this is all too simple as I labor away in my sandbox for over an hour. After the deed is done and I’m satisfied with the size of the hole I march back into the house to collect my babysitter. Unfortunately the mass of Miss Yates is much more colossal than I had anticipated. Even if I had the use of both hands I still wouldn’t be able to get this lady into my sandbox. Placing my good hand under my chin I slowly begin to stroke it like the evil geniuses do in the movies. “If only there was some way I could cut her up,” I ponder sinisterly. That’s when the idea strikes me. I don’t HAVE to cut her up, I just have to get her outside! Running into the garage I grab my red wagon along with my father’s duct tape and return to the scene.

After five minutes of struggling I’m able to get Miss Yates upper torso into my wagon and continue to wrap the entire roll of duct tape around the two for a firm connection. Pouring sweat from my brow I absentmindedly wipe it with my right forearm pouring the cool burn suppressant water on the floor. “There’s no time to refill it,” I realize looking at the clock. My parents hadn’t specified when they’d be back but they were never out past nine o’clock. And even if they were ten o’clock would be the latest. I don’t have the luxury of finding out which time is right in my current situation so I toss the cup aside, grab the wagon handle, and painfully pull Miss Yates out to her final resting place. Scanning the yard for nosy neighbors I pause a second to catch my breath and thank God the Almighty for the towering picket fence that surrounds our backyard and shrouds us in secrecy.

As I struggle to drag Miss Yates to the sandbox my right hand bursts into flames searing my flesh with horrible pain. Not only is the spiraling mark becoming more detailed but soft white patches have sprung up making me think of mildew collecting on a damp surface. “I’m running out of time,” I realize. Grabbing the side of my wagon and pouring it’s cargo into the hole I equip myself with my plastic shovel and go to work. In only a matter of minutes I successfully manage to cover up the woman’s chest and am working on her arms and legs when the dead body suddenly coughs up a cloud of sand and mucus in my direction. My God Miss Yates is still alive. This thought slams into me like a professional wrestler sending me to my knees.

In the grip of panic and with no time to waste I rush over to the garage to grab anything that might put this old lady down. Scanning the shelves and counter tops I spot my mothers gardening spade and seize it. “This is going to be messy,” I think, “but necessary.” Just then my parent’s car swerves drunkenly into the driveway sparking a new strategy into my young mind. “I just might be able to do it,” I think, “just need to act quickly.” Dropping the spade and running to my father’s alcohol cabinet I grab the biggest bottle of vodka I can find and race back to the sandbox. Popping off the top in a split second I pour generous amounts all over my unconscious babysitter. With 3/4ths of the bottle gone I slide the remainder into Miss Yates’s hand. I hear the slam of the front door as my parents walk into the house leaving me no time to wonder if this will work.

Dropping down onto my knees without a hint of grace I slip on the sand and smack my head against the concrete. Blood flows from the wound pouring down my face and burning my eyes. Miss Yates has also been marked with my blood but there’s no time to concern myself with any of this. Using my elbow to prop up the old lady I manage to slide uncomfortably beneath her body. It’s humid down in this hole under a woman who could have been my personal sun had she emitted any light. But I know I won’t be down here for long. Plus, I still have to construct a reasonable story for all of this before/ “Travis? Travis where are yo/OH MY GOD! ROBERT! ROBERT HE’S OUT HERE AND HE’S BLEEDING!”

My mother’s in hysterics now shouting about how the white trash babysitter has cut her poor boy up while on a deranged drinking binge probably high on drugs and heart medication. Meanwhile my father heroically hurls the demonic Miss Yates seven feet from the sandbox. The throw sends her skipping along the grass like a well thrown rock on water. “Are you all right son?” He asks gathering me up in his arms inspecting my cut. “What did that evil bitch do to you?” “I’ll tell you inside dad but first I need some water for my hand. It’s killing me.” He sounds amazed. “She burned you?” “She burned my boy!” My mother screams. “Yeah she burned me. She started drinking after you left and kept yelling at me. She said that I was bad and needed to be punished so I could be good. I just want to be good mom.” My mother looks at the crumpled figure of the unconscious Miss Yates seething hatred from every pore and says, “she’ll pay for this,” under her breath.

The True Story

Shortly after we were back inside I told about how the evil Yates woman had sneered with her vicious fangs as she held my hand on top of the hot burner. I told of how she reveled in the smell of cooked boy flesh like some sort of savage animal. Then I explained how Miss Yates liked to see children do senseless manual labor. Hence the hole in the sandbox. After I had dug a hole for no apparent reason my cruel babysitter tricked me into looking away so she could blindside me with her bottle sending me head first into the concrete. “I don’t remember much after that,” I had said “except that she picked me up and threw me in the hole saying that I was supposed to be the padding for her ass.” “Jason language!” my mother chided. “Well it’s what she told me,” I replied choked up. I forced out a tear for sympathy. It worked. The last portion of the story went along the lines of Miss Yates’s ass covering up any light at the bottom of the hole leaving me prisoner in my own sandbox; hungry, hot, and trapped at the mercy of her overpowering gas that was quickly depleting the oxygen and making me light headed.

Epilogue

Miss Yates is currently dead. But not before she spent her last three years in prison slowly going mad. By the time she died she was completely convinced that her doctor had set her up. Given her some strange medication and what not. But in those three years she never stumbled onto the truth. There’s a moral to this story folks. Kids are bastards. The End.