Alright, so I haven't really written much in the past while. This was something I wrote on a whim. Its written in a dialect so I'm sorry if its a little confusing to read xD. If you break it down into a more southern accent, it makes it a little easier to digest, but if not I'm sorry!
Oh, and its rated sixteen and up for violent content. You'll understand why later xP.
Remember Me
I ain’t really much for words. Never been. Kinda sorta been thinkin’ about writing something for a real long time but, if yah really must know, I haven’t found the way to put it.
So, when it came down to it, I guess you could say I gave up trying to make this little diddy sound any better, or quite frankly, any worse than it actually is. So, if yur’ wond’rin, I’m sorta just gonna’ put this er’ piece down in the best way I can.
Firstly, me names Betty Haines, of 155 Lakeport drive. I’ve been ere since God knows how long, living like a fish on ale. Drunk as expected, I suppose. Me husbands usually in the back, sippin’ away at his tequila and southern comfort. I meself am not a big fan of drinkin’ liquor. Burns my stomach to hell and back. I prefer a good ol’ beer, as cheap as they come.
But, I digress.
I guess yur’ wond’rin why a little ol’ country gal like meself is trying – and rather failing if you ask me – to write a this ere’ story. Well, to be completely honest with you, I guess it comes from a need to be famous. I wanna be remembered. I dun wanna be that gal who spends er’ days cookin’ and cleanin’ for er’ ‘usband who wants nuthin’ but sex and alcohol. Living off of welfare. Raising six ere’ kids. Nah, not my style.
So, I think to meself, what’s a good way to get famous? If yah really must know, writin’ wasn’t my first choice. In fact, if it had been, I really wouldn’t have had much to write ‘bout. Nah, writing was for ninnies who cared enough about worldly politics or whatever them youngin’s be thinkin’ bout these days. I really don’t. Like I said before; really not my style.
I got to thinking, ‘maybe I should be an actress’ like Julia Roberts or one of dem’ woman who cover magazines with their photos. I could act. Surely it ain’t that hard. I could do it in my sleep!
But that takes money. It takes knowin’. It takes connections I really didn’ have. So I er’ gave up that there dream. Too much effort for the likes of a country bumpkin like meself.
Then I er’ thought of doin’ things that weren’t so nice. Yah no, like robbin’ a bank or cheating a casino. Stuff that would get me in a lick of trouble. If I could pull off somethin’ real big, maybe I could be put down in the history books. I didn’ wanna be ere’ anyways. Jail could be a lot more fun. So, as I got to researchin’ which, by far, wasn’t as enjoyable as I er’ would have hoped, I realized just how hard it was to get remembered for such triflin’ things as cheatin’ and stealin’. Yeah that fifteen minutes would be nice, but fifteen minutes would be up quicker than I would have wanted.
So, I came to that ere’ turnin point. That moment where I decided whether sinnin’ was such a bad thing or not. And, when I think ‘bout it now, I realize that it wasn’t. So, I planned my big moment. Call me sociopathic, or whatever dem doctors be callin’ me these days, but I ain’t the type a’ girl to sit around long ‘nough to care.
It was 2’o clock in the afternoon. Me ‘usband was gettin’ back from the liquor store down the street. Don’t get me wrong. I love me ‘usband. Just that I, er’, didn’t really care much about livin’ with im’ anymore anyways.
As he strode in the doorway, sweat streamin’ down his dirty forehead (stainin’ his already stained wife-beater), I grabbed the kitchen knife and stabbed im’ four times in the chest. I ad’ neva seen so much blood in me life. Int’restin’ color if yah ask me. Smelt rusty, like a beat up ol’ car. Even in death was he a second rate piece of trash.
I wiped me hands clean on me apron, pleased with me work. Why, if you were me, wouldn’ you be? Of course, that’s me own opinion, I suppose.
The clean-up was a little rough; all that blood and whatnot. I ad’ to cut ‘im up just to fit ‘im in the trunk of dat der car in the garage. He fit, though. Good ol’ bastard, always mean’ to be stuffed in the trunk of a car in pieces, if yah ask me. Of course, I guess I’m biased seeing as I, er’, was the one to stuff ‘im in there.
When I was done, I took a tank er’ gasoline and poured it all over that useless piece of metal. The kids be home soon. I had to move quickly. As I er’ emptied the rest of it, I felt around my jean pockets for a match. Always a pack in ere’ case I needed a cig’.
I heard the door. The kids were laughing. Screeching like all hell if yah ask me. Why I ‘ad kids, I dun even know anymore. I left the garage to greet ‘em in the hallways, all love and ‘appiness. A load of bull if yah ask me.
It didn’t take much to get ‘em up in der’ bedrooms. The final touch, methinks. As I turned the key in the knobs, I think that’s when it, er’, snapped in me. I was getting’ what I wanted. I was gonna be famous. It gave me dat courage to light the carpet up. A slow blaze. A steady blaze.
I returned to the garage one last time, dropping a match on dat car where it lit up like the fourth of July. I couldn’t remember seein’ anything more beautiful in me life. What I woulda done for sum marsh mellows to go along with that bonfire.
And that der was the end of it. I left the house burnin’. I killed me family. I got what I wanted.
The last thin’ to do was to write this little piece and drop it off at the local police station. Yeah, that’s right. I turned meself in. Now people would know me name. Now I would be remembered. Hell, if me name didn’t go down in the hist’ry books for dis’ one, I’d be a monkey’s uncle.
So, least now I’m famous. I got me wish. Consequences were never really me thing anyways.
