The air smelled of summer rain and fresh cut grass. I was ten again and the world was one long July.  Days were punctuated by popsicles and gimp, lemonade stands and lightning bugs.  Did I know then, on some subconscious level, that July never repeats itself, that the July of ten would not, could not, be the July of eleven?

I stretch out on my bunk and let my nose take me back. Nana's lilac bush, powdery and sweet.  Hamburgers on the grill, always with a bitter char.  The gag inducing bug spray swirling in clouds around our heads and tanned ankles.  Maybe that's where all the trouble started, with insecticides invading my brain, taking up residence in the seat of reason.  Sure, it might be years before it became obvious to everyone that something was a bit off, that I wasn't just "acting out." 

Now, with the luxury of years of thinking time, I'm convinced that the cells of a killer were triggered that July when I was ten, by a squirt of "Bug-Off."

© 2009 Suzanne Holland. Original for CCF. Suzanne grants CCF first electronic rights for one month; CCF may archive the material indefinitely and include it in an eBook anthology.