Today is my sister's birthday. In honor of this occasion I share a story from our childhood. A story that is both sick and twisted. A story that shows just how deeply depraved I was, even at a young age. This story begins with a funeral.
When I was nine or ten years old, my great-grandmother, Freddie Powers, passed away. I remember Dad sitting April and myself down in the living room and breaking the news to us. I remember feeling sad, and remember thinking that I should be crying, even though I wasn't. I knew that the thing to do when someone died was to cry. April was crying. I couldn't figure out why I couldn't get the tears to come. Now I know it's because I was incapable of real human emotion.
We made the trip to Nashville for Freddie's funeral. At the funeral home, we discovered a break room area in the basement. By we, I mean the kids. It was here that we got away from the grown-ups and got to drink sodas and eat chips. Across the hallway from this little break room was the display room, where the funeral home had a showcase of caskets.
This is the part where I put the fun in funeral. At the far end of this display room was a large door that I can only assume was locked. A sign on the door said "employees only." As we weren't employees, we couldn't very well go exploring any further. But we could hear strange and disturbing noises from beyond that door.
"What do they do in that room?" my innocent sister asked.
My evil mind was working quickly. "That's where they cut off the legs." April looked at me with a horrifying expression on her face. "Didn't you ever wonder why they open up the top half of the casket? It's 'cause they take the legs off first."
April probably ran upstairs and probably told on me. I probably got in trouble. But I think that deep down, Dad was probably thinking, "That's my boy!"