Mesodiplosis (mes-o-dip-lo’-sis): Repetition of the same word or words in the middle of successive sentences.
I was bumping, bumping along. Mt father was pulling me in my wagon along the sidewalk. My wagon had no springs—it was a hard ride. In fact, my butt was getting sore. I wanted to say something like “Daddy my behind hurts.” But, I knew he would become angry, pull the wagon faster, and prolong our trip to cause me more pain. He carried a Ruger .357 stuck in the back of his pants. He said he would only use it on dogs that attacked us.
I had to get out of the wagon! So, when we went over a big bump I pretended to fall out. I hit the pavement pretty hard. My ears were ringing. Dad pulled the pistol, spun around, and aimed it at my head. I was terrified. He said, “I know what you’re up to, you little shit.!” I knew too: I just wanted to get out of the wagon before my bottom started bleeding.” I said, “Oh yeah? Tell me what I’m up to.” He said, “You need a drink. If you get out of the wagon you’ll go straight to “Willie’s Bar. You’ll get drunk and your mother will kill me.”
First, I was only six years old—Willie’s was not an option. Second,,Mom had disappeared last week. That’s why Dad had come to take care of me. His idea of taking care of me was having a Dairy Queen swirl for breakfast and dinner every day. We didn’t eat lunch because “it makes you fat.”
Next:
Two things happened: 1. They found Mom tied up in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town; 2. Mom implicated Dad in her abduction. 3. Dad had recently escaped from a facility for the criminally insane where he had been incarcerated for stealing chocolate bars and feeding them to dogs. The ASPCA had offered a reward of $500 for his capture and imprisonment. It looked like maybe Mom was due the $500 for ratting out dad. She was already planning a weekend in Miami with the reward money. She was concerned that her rope burns were not very attractive.
For my part, I had gotten my hands on Dad’s .357 and I was really anxious to shoot something. There was a squirrel that irritated the hell out of me with its chattering all day long. It lived in the tree right outside my bedroom window. Easy shot! I put up my window and raised the gun. Holy shit! It was my father sitting there on the limb. He had escaped! He told me to give him the gun. I said “Bullshit” and threw the gun out the window. The gun went off when it hit the ground and shot my father in the foot. He screamed while I called 911. He was handcuffed and driven away in an ambulance while Mom yelled at him from the front porch.
I turned the gun in anonymously. At the age of 6 I had been through a lot. Now that I’m sixteen, I look back and thank God I got through it all. My only regret is that I wasn’t able to kill the damn irritating squirrel. It’s still going strong.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).
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