Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-33409403-20180111002719

   No one believes me, no one. Maybe I’ve lost my mind, maybe it was a dream, no that doesn’t make sense. It was too real. What happened on the night of July 2nd 1994 was real.





I was seven years old. I loved to swim but we couldn’t afford a swimming pool. My parents took this into consideration when we moved and although our new home didn’t have a one of its own it was only a few houses away from a community pool.



My mom would take me almost every other night that summer. I would swim for hours on end without ever getting bored. Every once in a while right before closing a maintenance guy with overalls, a dirty white shirt and a small nametag that read “Samuel” would seemingly appear out of nowhere to lock the doors and coax everyone out of the pool.



He had long gelled back hair which he had to have used a bottle of gel a day on, a long face with a large hairy mole on his left cheek and brown eyes so dark they almost looked black.



Every night as if on cue he would around the back of the restrooms and up to the front and watch us swim for a few minutes, his back slouched over and his beady black eyes following me. Occasionally he would look up at the clock. Then finally once it was 10:00 PM he would waltz up to the edge of the pool and with a crooked smile ask us to leave.



This was the only time he would smile. Every other second he had a pale almost dead expressionless face. I preferred this to his smile. When he smiled his whole face looked like it was about to tear apart, his lips quivering with happiness or simply the tension his contracting muscles created.



“It’s time to go,” my mom would say, walking towards the exit.



Then, right afterward, once my mother was out of earshot “Samuel” would lean in just a little bit closer to where his whole upper body was slanted over his legs and whisper a loud hissing whisper “Yes, Time to go”.

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