story
So I felt like doing some creative writing, you know that urge you get sometimes? Anyway this is kind of --no, definitely--a personal story that I don't tell people, and I've tried over and over again to suppress these memories, but I'm finally just letting it all go because I can't fight it anymore. It's really short and could be developed more but it was really just stress writing...so this is what I got.
Was it when he jumped in Mom's black Eagle Talon (my neighbor Mike was always envious) that I realized? Or was I yet too young, too unaffected by reality, too absorbed in trivality and dolls and imagination and bicycles (no more training wheels, Dad took them off) and blue eyeshadow? I can't remember the dialogue. I can't remember if he kissed you when he crawled in the passenger seat, or if he was respectful of the two children in the back of the car, seat-belted with wide eyes puffy and red from wiping tears away on the sleeves our size "S" sweaters. I don't even remember where we went-- did you bring him back home? Daddy wasn't there, you knew that. I knew that, and I was seven.
How did he know-- was there an unfamiliar call on the caller ID, was there an unerased message on the answering machine, did he call and Daddy picked up? I know a phone was involved because as I stared directly up at the Simpsons (I sat close to the TV; is that why my eyesight is so bad?) I saw him make an attempt at breaking the phone in half. I knew he was strong and I knew he had strong hands because they were big and beefy and he handled steel and other construction materials all day long at work so he could throw back beers in the evening. But the phone was big and thick, too; it could handle his rage. You were not so lucky.
I heard the water running and I saw Daddy running and I saw Baby gasp and then I started running. And then I started hitting because he started grabbing and you started choking and the steam was rising and rising and rising all around you. And you were helpless naked guilty and Daddy's pants were wet from standing in the water and my hand hurt from hitting him on the rear because that's what you did when someone was being bad. When someone did something wrong you hit them on the behind and they didn't do it anymore.
You put clothes on and your hair was still wet and you said "Let's go, c'mon honey," but I didn't want to go. But I didn't have a choice. I never had a choice. I made sure Baby buckled up and then I buckled up and you drove fast because you were angry and scared and had been figured out. I don't think it was then that I figured you out, though.
It must have been the time you drove to Chambersburg and I said "Mom I've never been here before." I was nine then, smarter, I could finally put things together and create a story. You pulled into a driveway, next to a red Jeep Wrangler, I always liked those cars because they seemed fun. You opened the door to the house next to the driveway-- you didn't even knock. The guy inside was nice and had a big smile and lots of exercise equipment in his house. His muscles were really big, so it must have used it a lot. He gave you a hug. He said his name was Jim.
But even then I wasn't sure who he was. It was only when you said on the phone, after a few weeks of us visiting Jim (who was still really nice), that you had been tanning and had "the girls" with you. I never saw a tanning bed-- did Jim have a tanning bed too? How did he fit everything in his little house?
"Tell Dave you go tanning with me if he asks," she said. Then it hit me, what had been hanging over my head for quite some time, slowly transforming and influencing me, and I didn't even know about it. I didn't like what I learned.
Was it when he jumped in Mom's black Eagle Talon (my neighbor Mike was always envious) that I realized? Or was I yet too young, too unaffected by reality, too absorbed in trivality and dolls and imagination and bicycles (no more training wheels, Dad took them off) and blue eyeshadow? I can't remember the dialogue. I can't remember if he kissed you when he crawled in the passenger seat, or if he was respectful of the two children in the back of the car, seat-belted with wide eyes puffy and red from wiping tears away on the sleeves our size "S" sweaters. I don't even remember where we went-- did you bring him back home? Daddy wasn't there, you knew that. I knew that, and I was seven.
How did he know-- was there an unfamiliar call on the caller ID, was there an unerased message on the answering machine, did he call and Daddy picked up? I know a phone was involved because as I stared directly up at the Simpsons (I sat close to the TV; is that why my eyesight is so bad?) I saw him make an attempt at breaking the phone in half. I knew he was strong and I knew he had strong hands because they were big and beefy and he handled steel and other construction materials all day long at work so he could throw back beers in the evening. But the phone was big and thick, too; it could handle his rage. You were not so lucky.
I heard the water running and I saw Daddy running and I saw Baby gasp and then I started running. And then I started hitting because he started grabbing and you started choking and the steam was rising and rising and rising all around you. And you were helpless naked guilty and Daddy's pants were wet from standing in the water and my hand hurt from hitting him on the rear because that's what you did when someone was being bad. When someone did something wrong you hit them on the behind and they didn't do it anymore.
You put clothes on and your hair was still wet and you said "Let's go, c'mon honey," but I didn't want to go. But I didn't have a choice. I never had a choice. I made sure Baby buckled up and then I buckled up and you drove fast because you were angry and scared and had been figured out. I don't think it was then that I figured you out, though.
It must have been the time you drove to Chambersburg and I said "Mom I've never been here before." I was nine then, smarter, I could finally put things together and create a story. You pulled into a driveway, next to a red Jeep Wrangler, I always liked those cars because they seemed fun. You opened the door to the house next to the driveway-- you didn't even knock. The guy inside was nice and had a big smile and lots of exercise equipment in his house. His muscles were really big, so it must have used it a lot. He gave you a hug. He said his name was Jim.
But even then I wasn't sure who he was. It was only when you said on the phone, after a few weeks of us visiting Jim (who was still really nice), that you had been tanning and had "the girls" with you. I never saw a tanning bed-- did Jim have a tanning bed too? How did he fit everything in his little house?
"Tell Dave you go tanning with me if he asks," she said. Then it hit me, what had been hanging over my head for quite some time, slowly transforming and influencing me, and I didn't even know about it. I didn't like what I learned.