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God's Cruel Irony (standard:drama, 2839 words)
Author: Prurient VirginAdded: Feb 14 2003Views/Reads: 2054/1220Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A young boy has to grow up way too fast. It's almost TV Afterschool specialish.
 



God's Cruel Irony The old saying goes, “There are two things certain in
life: Death and taxes.”  I don't know about taxes, because I've never 
had a job, but death is something that I definitely believe is certain. 
 I should be scared, but my pastor says there is nothing to fear about 
death, as long as I have Jesus in my life.  Jesus, there is another 
thing I am not certain about in life.   I mean.... “Derek, can you come 
downstairs please?”  The booming voice of Derek's mother echoed 
throughout the house interrupting Derek's thoughts. “Damn, I forgot 
what I was going to write.  Oh well, I'm sure it will come to me later. 
 Guess I better see what she wants,”  Derek says to himself, as he 
flips his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, putting his 
black t-shirt on which seems to be one size too big. He throws the 
journal onto his bed, looks at himself in the full length mirror, rubs 
his bald head and heads downstairs.  “Yeah mom, what do you want?” “You 
know what time it  is don't you?”  She smiles at him, knowing he's 
forgotten the time, but not with the least bit of anger.  She even 
expected it, knowing how often he writes in his journal and gets lost 
in thought. “No, I didn't forget.  I guess...well, I pushed it out of 
my mind, that is all.” “Well, I didn't, so grab your coat.  We have to 
go.” “Damn it, I hate this.” “Derek, watch your mouth!  I know you hate 
it honey, and I hate it as much as you do, but it has to be done.” “Why 
even go, mom.  Not like it is helping,” Derek says in protest. “Derek!” 
His mother scolds him.  “Don't say things like that.  It is helping 
honey, you have to believe that.” “Whatever mom.” “Derek, come here and 
sit down.  We need to talk.”  Derek grudgingly follows his mother's 
orders and sits down at the small round table in the kitchen.  “Honey,” 
Derek's mother compassionately says, “sometimes in life we are faced 
with problems...” Oh great, Derek thinks to himself.  Not another one 
of these life talks.  I love my mom, but sometimes she has to realize 
that I'm not as young as she wants me to always be.  It's just plain 
annoying how she tries to explain things to me that I already know. 
“And most importantly, I love you.  Do you understand?” Derek's mother 
asks, interrupting Derek's thoughts. “Yeah mom, I get it.” He says 
tiredly. “Good, then go get your coat, we have to go.” “Fine.”  Derek 
stormed off into the living room of the small, quaint, four room 
townhouse that he and his mother occupied.  It was small, but it was 
adequate for Derek and his mother.  All a house really needs is a 
kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom and a living room, and thankfully 
this house had all of them.  Derek's mother slept on the couch because 
she was gracious enough to let Derek have the only bedroom.  Although 
it was small, it looked like a palace, and to Derek and his mother, it 
was.  Derek grabbed his coat off the coat hanger that was nailed to the 
right of the fireplace and he put it on.  That, like his shirt, seemed 
to be one size too big.   “Lets go,” Derek said as he walked back into 
the kitchen, and made his way through the only entrance and exit in the 
house.  Derek's mother closed her eyes in what seemed to be a short 
prayer and locked the house as she followed Derek. “Thanks for doing 
this for us Mr. Watkins,” Derek's mother said as she got into backseat 
of his old '87 Ford minivan.  Derek had already occupied the front 
seat. “Not a problem, my good lady,” Mr. Watkins said with the highest 
manners.  “The folks around town will do anything to help you good 
folks out.  Just don't hesitate to ask.” “Derek, don't you have 
anything to say to Mr. Watkins?” Derek turned his head as he shrugged 
and said impassively, “Thanks Mr. Watkins.” Mr. Watkins laughed and 
patted Derek on the shoulder.  “Don't mention it, sport.” Derek just 
turned and looked out the window, his eyes seemingly lost in deep 
thought.  “He's just a little nervous,” Derek's mother said.  “He 
always is.” “That's understandable,” Mr. Watkins said in his deep, aged 
voice.  “It can't be easy on him.  Or you.” “No, it isn't.  But we are 
doing all our best to get through this.” “Yes, just remember like I 
said.  If you need anything, just ask.” The rest of the car ride moved 
along slowly, in silence.  As the minivan reached closer to its 
destination, Derek got more lost in thought.  How will this turn out?  
Will everyone who sees me ask the same questions?  They ask them when 
they know I'm going to give them the same answer.  It is always the 
same answer.  “How are you doing Derek?” They'll ask.  I'll answer 
them, “Fine,” when I secretly want to scream that them, “WHAT DOES IT 
MATTER?!  YOU DON'T REALLY CARE!  AND WHY DO YOU KEEP ASKING?  YOU 
THINK I'LL TELL YOU HOW I REALLY FEEL ANYWAY?”  Maybe they do care, I 
don't really know.  I mean, some people really are good and do care 
about other people, but there are those that feign sympathy to gain 
points with God, as if that will do the trick. Derek's mother's voice 
snaps through Derek's thought process.  “DEREK, LET'S GO.  I'M NOT 
GOING TO TELL YOU AGAIN!”  Derek looks up and out the window and 
realizes the destination has been reached.  The tall, dreadful building 


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