October 5 - 11

Then another scream was let out, and suddenly, there was a large chorus of crying, yelping, and shrill yells. The boy shrank further and further back as his mother's hand got closer and closer. Suddenly, her hand was around his, yanking, pulling. He gave it the best he could, but to no avail. He was abruptly wrenched out of the small, brightly colored, plastic chair. He joined the choir as unexpectedly as it stopped. He was alone, no one there to defend him. Even his mother had turned against him. She persisted in dragging him across the scratchy carpet, never giving up. The door grew bigger and bigger as it drew closer and closer.

Next thing he knew, he was behind that door, now in a larger plastic chair. His pulse quickened as he realized how clean it smelled in the room. This, surely, must be a warning. Any place this tidy and germ free could not be good for a kid. The boy knew that it wasn't. More waiting. If they were going to force his torture, could they not just get it over with?! He heard the door squeak, and he wished it wouldn't have happened. He thought, "I take it back! I take it back! More waiting, please!" But it was in vain. He was the prey, and the large man was the predator: A fact of life that had to be faced. The impostor had a smooth voice, speaking to the boy's mother. He was hoisted from his chair, his pouting interrupted. He now sat on paper. It rustled as he moved, an escape attempt, only to be stopped. The man turned around, and what he was holding was not encouraging.

The needle was skinny and amazingly long. The liquid about to be injected into him sloshed around as the man prowled closer and closer. The boy tensed up, unwilling to do this the easy way. His sleeve has already been rolled up by his mother while he was caught up in his thoughts. He was advised to look away, but no way was he going to obey either of these wrongdoers. As the needle punctured his arm, he wished he had looked away. The small point plunged deeper and deeper, seeming to never stop. Finally, the liquid plunged into his squirming body. He wailed and screamed, left alone once again. The needle was slowly withdrawn, and a Band-Aid placed on. Spongebob. He didn't even like Spongebob. He soared to the ground in his mother's arms as the next sufferer was herded in.

Once on the black pavement of the parking lot, he refused to speak to his mother. His arm ached and was sore. He clambered into the car, sunk into the sticky leather. As he crossed his arms in the back seat, he noticed that his mother had turned into the bakery parking lot. Could it be? The possibility of a donut, cookie, piece of cake? His spirits perked, thinking that possibly this day might have some purpose. His mother quickly walked in. She was back out in a very short amount of time. She was bearing a large white bag, which was placed into the seat beside her. Before driving away, she placed a donut into his hand. The boy's excitement jumped, only to be shot down. No sprinkles.