Creative Writing

The Runs
I remember when I had the runs. I was seven years old, and returning from a road trip with my parents; brothers, and aunt. My family had decided we should go on a road trip to spend some quality time, and since my aunt was just a little older than my brothers, she tagged along on most of our trips. She’s cool, though. In the middle of the road, my dad decided we should stop at a convenience store and grab some stuff to eat while driving. I grabbed a burrito and a few things, a lot of things that I wouldn’t’ve grabbed if this weren’t a trip. My dad was in a good mood, and since he had cashed his paycheck, he was feeling generous. After a couple of hours on the road, I started feeling sick. My stomach was rumbling, and I moved in my seat. At that time, my dad had an old and battered blue Ford Maverick, and I was stuffed in the middle of parents sweating as my insides were about to explode. I tugged my mom’s shirt and told her I needed to go to the bathroom. My dad heard and said, “No way, there are no service stations in the next 100 miles.” He told me to hold tight and told me not to shit in the car. My brothers started laughing at me, and I noticed how tears came out of my eyes. I felt humiliated. Between the pain and humiliation, there was the imminent need of going to the bathroom. I started sweating and twitching; I felt my stomach rumbling and burning. I felt I was going to faint, and if I fainted, I would have been able to control my bowels. I didn’t want to be grounded, you know? My mom saw me and saw the mortification and sheer pain I was feeling and said sympathetically “I think we should stop.

” My dad looked and her and told her we couldn’t, that there was no place to stay on the road. My mom looked at me and knew. I connected to her, I understood the pain; I knew the pain of giving birth and bearing a child. My mom’s eyes glinted for a second, and she grabbed something under the seat. She held a small cardboard box, a shoe box. I said, “Mom I don’t wanna poop on a cardboard box,” she answered “Is the only thing we have”, and looked genuinely distraught.
I started unzipping my pants and taking aim while my mom held the cardboard box under my cheeks. I felt it, the pressure was too intense, and I couldn’t hold anymore. My dad was about to puke, and my brothers laughed at me. My mom laughed, but she soldiered up, trying to help me through that predicament. A couple of minutes later I felt that my legs were giving in; the position was so uncomfortable because the car was still moving. I could barely aim, and I feared I could soil my dad’s car. My brothers were starting messing up with me, they were only twelve and eleven years old at that time. I resumed crying as my humiliation had started again. Not only I was relieving myself in a cardboard box, but my family was laughing at me. They surely didn’t understand my pain, though. Before completely collapsing I noticed that my urges had stopped, and so I told my mom. I then asked, “Mom, do we have toilet paper?” She answered “No, we don’t have any.” However, she started searching for something under the seat again and showed me her sweater. She had a white Mickey Mouse shirt she had bought not so much ago. I denied, and argued that I could use a sock. She pressured me, and I started to wipe, sad that I had soiled my mom’s sweater. She tossed it away, and I knew that although my dad didn’t want me to spoil his car, my mom let me wipe with her clothing. There seems parents have various degrees of commitment, and that day I realized that my dad’s was not much.