Is it possible to write an entire story in the interrogative? We'll find out, won't we?
What went wrong? It had started out innocently enough, but how could it have gone so terribly awry?
What was I thinking when I agreed to go along with my grandparents to an insurance meeting, where I would be surrounded by legions of the psychotic elderly for many hours at a time? Was it because of the promise of three gallons of ice cream? Or was it the strange, unnerving gleam in my grandparents' eyes when they had asked me, nay, ordered me, to accompany them, the gleam that seemed to say that they knew when and where I slept at night? What kind of twisted, sadistic travesty of a mind would dare to expose an impressionable young mind, that of its own grandchild, even, to the horrors of hour-long lectures about various old-folk-related dysfunctionalities?
"Will my colostomy bags be covered under this plan?"
"What if I need to have my lower intestines cleaned?"
"How about drugs for me 'n' the missus' inadequacies?"
Would the questions never end? Near madness, I began chanting to myself, "I'm not listening! I'm not listening!" but was it only in my own mind or was I speaking out loud? It must have been out loud, for why else would all eyes in the room have suddenly turned to me, as a deathly silence fell over the congregation?
"And what's your name, little boy?"
Was that a cackle I heard, or was it only the coffee machine? I stammered; where had my voice gone? The smell of one of the old men's diapers reached my nostrils, and that's when I ran; what else could I do?
I was dimly aware of the clamor of clattering canes and walkers right at my heels, and of occasional calls of, "Help me find my colostomy bag, sonny," which only served to spur me on faster as my mind also raced; how could I escape? Without warning, my own grandparents leapt into the corridor before me, each catching one of my arms as I darted past; why had they forsaken me? They held me captive as an old lady with no teeth or hair approached me with a small plastic bag, who said, "Try some of my double-bran prune cookies, sonny. They keep you regular, right Agatha?"
That's when I began to scream, which proved to be a mistake as "Agatha" crammed fistfuls of cookies into my mouth, and a single tear escaped from the corner of my eye while I thought, "What have I done to deserve this?" The bran took effect with unnatural speed, and before the world went black I screamed in rage at the realization of my approaching fate, all while the elderly cackled, danced the Charleston, and sang, "Buffalo gals won't you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight?"
...Why won't the hurting stop?