How To Be A Savage: Part 1

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Hello, everyone! Welcome to the start of an experiment. For the next several weeks, I’ll be posting pieces of flash fiction that will begin to come together in a Wattpad series in the near future. It’s called “How To Be A Savage,” and focuses on the fictional narrator Ellie and her family. Ellie is an autistic adult with a son on the spectrum. There’s a lot more I could say, but I’ll let Ellie take it away…

“Today I want to be a superhero to housewives everywhere!” I loudly declare, directing the wand of the vacuum cleaner as far under the bed as it will go.

Probably most of the dust bunnies by the furthest bedpost are laughing at me. I only reach 5’2″ in heels, and because of where the queen-sized bed sits in the room, the angles from which I can reach the darkest corners underneath it are limited. We live in an old house, with slightly odd measurements, and tight corners, and… Anyway, it creates complications with stuff like where dust can collect.

And today has not been a good day for Executive Function, so I might not be able to determine when I’m at the wrong angle for achieving maximum reach.

Hey, most housewives will consider me a superhero just for trying. I know that. I can live with it.

But I’d much rather live with the excitement on my husband’s face when I tell him how hard I tried to eliminate every speck of dust from our bedroom.

“And so she brandished her wand and directed its fearsome Sucking Spiral at the horrific gray monsters, rearing on their powerful hind legs…”

Okay, yes, sometimes I develop a fantasy narrative to my life in my head while I’m going about mundane tasks. If it helps me get through the day…

My life is extremely mundane. I barely leave the house some days. Lately, Connor’s been a little less tolerant about stuff like the housework being underdone. He won’t say much, but he’ll roll his eyes more, and sigh, and I’ll realize that I forgot to wipe down the bathroom counter like I said I was going to, or that I missed one item on the grocery list, or didn’t return the phone call he told me about last week.

I hate seeing that look on his face. I hate going to bed that night and having him snuggle up to me, anyway, even though he sounds sad when he says, “Good night, El.”

How can he be so disappointed in me but not be mad at me? It twists me up in knots. If he just got mad and yelled and slept on the couch, I’d know what to do. I’d spend all of the next day ironing and polishing and leaving voicemails for people I’d rather never speak to again. Just to make him happy. Because then I’d know for sure how he felt, and I’d have fixed it.

I like it when I can identify the problem, and then resolve it.

Hence, I attack the defiant dust bunnies.

Neither of my sons take any notice of my exuberant housecleaning efforts when they return from school. Well, Sam wouldn’t, he’s only 4. But Luke should, he’s 15, and we’re making him do more adulting. Well, he’s autistic, and he’s just more focused on his homework and how much of his hobbies he can squeeze in before dinnertime. So was I at his age. I don’t hold it against him if he doesn’t notice me putting the vacuum back in the closet.

Should I? Should I be encouraging him to notice the little things more? Reminding him his future spouse will one day appreciate it?

Tonight, I am determined to be on top of things. I turn off my laptop at precisely 5:03, a whole 27 minutes before I expect Connor home. I instruct Luke, who still has up to an hour of gaming time since his math is complete, “Please hurry up and die in Minecraft so you can put away the dishes.” I tell Sam, who’s enjoying his nightly viewing of Nick Jr., “After your show, let’s get ready for Daddy, okay?”

Amazingly, both my boys heed my words without more prodding or cajoling or threatening.

It’s going to be a good evening.

Thank you for reading, everyone! Please leave your thoughts in the comments!