Sure, I played Red Rover, Mother May I, Red Light Green Light; we’d all played those. We’d all had our share of kickball and baseball, tag in all its variations and climbing trees, exploring the drawers in the bathrooms and playing house. But it gets weirder. The games my cousins and I played turned into faux violence, like the copy of Total Recall with Arnold Schwarzenegger that Meghan and I tried to watch all the time.
We were Winesburg’s berry pickers, eating the pesticide-ridden berries off of the trees by the chicken coop. Over and over our parents warned us, but we saw no immediate danger. With stained red fingers, we chased one another until we fell into the grass laughing. It looked like blood. We walked back over to the bushes, and I smeared raspberry guts between my fingers, across Meghan’s brow and down the corner of her mouth. Meghan had recently crashed the green mo-ped behind the barn, and it scared everyone shitless. The panic, the alarm, it was intoxicating and exciting. So exciting that we wanted to feel it again. So I smeared Meghan full of raspberry blood; the gorier the better.
We created intricate shark attack scenes in the pool, any sort of red mess sloshing about us. And we yelled for our parents, and our grandparents. To us, this was normal. We loved to see them run toward us, to see the look on their faces when they thought we’d been hurt. Of course they were smart enough to see the raspberry seeds in the blood once they got close enough to us.
It was all pretend, but you can imagine our excitement when we heard about a real disaster, a scene with real blood, that had happened on our grandparents’ very farm…
Check back tomorrow for the next bloody disaster.