Bathroom after gothic story

After I read Edgar Allen Poe’s A Tell-Tale Heart, I found my heart beating faster as I try to work up the courage to go to the bathroom alone. “Mom”, I said shakingly. “Would you like to accompany me to the bathroom?” My mother, who was warm and cozy in her bed, was reluctant to leave her comfortable spot. Thus, I had no choice but to suppress my imaginations of the character in the gothic short story abruptly jumping at me. A few minutes passed, I walked my way to the kitchen to turn on the lights. As I sat on the toilet, I suddenly remember the night in Quang Binh when I was away with my swim team for Nationals. Such horrifying memory inhibits me from being completely sane when I am alone. It was the night before my first day of the competition. At the dead of night, I was awoken by a terrifying scream that shocked me to my core. A shadow quickly flashed through the curtain by the door. I heard a large thump as if someone has fallen down. “Catch that thief!” my manager screamed. My coach quickly chased after the thief as the shadows began to cross over the curtain. I then heard the noise of the gorillas, jumping frantically in their cage. Scared and puzzled, I immediately leaped into my friend’s bed (which was next to mine). When night turned to dawn, my eyes were wide and open, and so was my friend’s. She and I had been lying perfectly still for the past hours. Even though it was a new day, I still could not stop thinking about it. It was too scary for me to grasp, as if the black curtains surrounding my bed to keep the mosquitoes out were not frightening enough.
Can you believe how much I can remember just by sitting on the toilet?

The Vietnamese Boston Winter

There is something about winter that reminds me of Christmas in Vietnam back in 2002. Could it be the crispy air, the frigidness that paralyzes my bare feet, or the tangible dryness of which I dread? No, it is the palpable affection between my mom and I. I experienced a sudden childhood reminiscence as I ran across the kitchen and into my mom’s welcoming arms. It was no different seven years ago when my mom held me closely by her side, with her soft, oversized wool sweater, emitting the most loving warmth to my frozen hands that any seven-year-old could imagine. Still, I remember the smell of J’adore that seemed to alleviate my fears and nightmares when I hug her. It was 2 am on Christmas Day that I was awoken by the crackling sound of present wrappers. I opened my eyes. There my mother was, turning around, and giving me a worried look. I then got off my bed, and walked towards her. She handed me a present. It was a Cinderella coloring book with stickers. As she looked at me when I stared wildly at the precious gift, she told me that it was from Santa Clause. Naïve and oblivious I was, I thanked my mom and went back to sleep. Somehow I always knew that the present was not from Santa Clause. I just never understood the joy of having a gift from the corpulent old man instead of from my own mother.