Jack and Jill (standard:Flash, 645 words)
Author: James C. Bernthal	Added: Sep 12 2004	Views/Reads: 3371/2	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The shattering aftermath years latter of the first to verses (all I know) of the popular nursery-rhyme.

I never liked you anyway, Jill.  You were always mean to me.  Can't you
see, Jill, that I have to kill you? 

You've always known my allergies:  washing powder, milk and vinegar. 
Why did we have to have that row?  We must have climbed that hill a 
million times, retrieving water for our parents.  They thought it 
looked sweet, you know, a little boy and a little girl frolicking up 
the hill, each with a bucket in one hand and the other's hand in the 
other. 

I think they always regarded us more as man and wife than brother and
sister. 

Let's try to work it out.  Doesn't that sound fun?  It's not as if we're
running out of time.  I feel immortal.  You feel immortal too, I know.  
Believe me, Jill, darling, you're not.  Anyway, what happened? 

It started with the parents having a row at home, didn't it?  Remember? 
It was something about me wanting a new pet.  It was dog, I believe, 
that time.  Mum was protesting that I never got any privileges and that 
you had everything in this life.  Dad was protesting that I was far too 
young to take responsibility for it.  He was quite right, of course – I 
didn't even want it as a pet.  I wanted to taste doggy soup. 

We needed some air so we volunteered to get the water for the tea.  Do
you remember? 

We frolicked up the hill as usual.  You'd forgotten the bucket, or pale,
as you love to refer to it.  I had to go back and get it.  When I came 
back, you'd done something that meant the beginning of the argument.  
What was it?  Ah, yes, that's it.  Ha ha ha.  I hardly need remind you 
of all that. 

I remember the words exactly.  Do you? 

I said:  “You know I'm allergic to milk!  How could you?” 

You sniggered and giggled.  You held out your fat finger out and prodded
me.  Down I fell.  All the way down the hill.  I think you said:  
“Goodbye, Jack!” 

Didn't you?  You did.  Then, as a final evil touch, you threw down the
bucket – I'm sorry, the pale.  It hit its target.  Bang on the back of 
the head.  It wasn't quite perfect, I'm afraid.  You just missed the 
medulla oplemgata.  Still, you broke a few bones, didn't you? 

I must admit that the show you put on was excellent, even by your
standards.  You hurried down after me, missing a few treads and 
tumbling the last couple of steps, as soon as you saw our mother 
approaching. 

“Oh, my poor, dear Jack!” you wailed.  “What a terrible accident!” 

I ran home as fast as I could.  I couldn't bare a second more with a
cute young girl who enjoys pushing innocent siblings down hills.  Come 
to think of it, I think you tried to push me into the well itself.  Did 
you?  I thought so.  It doesn't really matter any more.  Let bygones be 
bygones. 

I won't, I'm afraid.  You hurt me.  Badly.  That was just evil, what you
did afterwards with the brown paper and the vinegar. 

“Here,” I was told by the doctor.  “Put this over your forehead.” 

“Thank you, doctor,” I replied.  Then I noticed you giggling.  It was
the same giggle you'd used at the top of the hill.  Then the doctor had 
double-checked with you that I had no allergies.  You replied that you 
knew definitely that I hadn't. 

I very nearly died.  Do you have any idea how it feels to be in so much
pain?  You will soon.  Just as the scars, physical and emotional, were 
beginning to heal, you went and made our story public.  You evil, 
evil... 

I can't stand it any more.  We are both far too old for all this.  Fun
and games, fun and games. 

Goodbye, Jill. 

THE END


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