Theatrical Muse: Five Years
We've got five years, that's all we've got - Five years, David Bowe
April 24, 1984
Twelve years old and her whole world changes. Twelve years old and Murphy realizes that Disney and fairy tales are a lie. Things don’t have happy endings. People who are supposed to love you forever don’t and when they don’t love you anymore, they leave. She’s twelve years old when she goes to bed and over night, something inside her grows up. When she wakes up the next morning she realizes that she can’t be a little kid anymore. Her mom’s gone so she’s running the household.
Her dad won’t be coming home for another two days because of work. Her grandmother is old and her hands shake when she tries to do things. Murphy’s got two good hands that don’t shake so she can peel potatoes for dinner. She can help pick up clothes for the laundry. She can do these things that her mother would do because her mother’s not coming back. She can take care of herself because the person who’s supposed to do it can’t anymore. Chose not to. So Murphy grows up and learns to do things for herself because at twelve years old, she’s realized that no one’s going to do them for you. Even the people who are supposed to.
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January 03, 1989
Blind panic drives Murphy to her knees by her father’s side. He doesn’t look good. His eyes are wide, but they’re not focused on her. She keeps calling to him, but he’s not answering. She’s so scared. Her dad isn’t supposed to be like this. He’s supposed to be a huge, overbearing presence that drives her crazy. He’s not supposed to be on the floor, looking weak and scared. Her dad was never scared.
Instinct takes over and she grabs the phone from the hall table. She babbles something at the 911 operator and then goes back to her dad’s side. Health class training wasn’t the best instruction for CPR, but it’s all she knows, so she breaths air into her dad’s lungs and then starts pressing on his chest. She counts through the tears. She keeps up the rhythm, breath, count, cry, until her dad sucks in a breath on his own and the paramedics storm in the house. Sitting the back of the ambulance, she lets the nice paramedic tell her it’s going to be okay. She lets herself believe it for the first time in five years.
When nothing changes, she lets the last of her hope slip away. Five years of taking care of herself wasn’t just a test. It wasn’t suddenly going to get better. There was no fairy godmother for her. She was on her own, honestly and truly. Nothing was going to change that.
Her dad could have a heart attack and he’d still work long hours. She could call all the relatives she could find, but her mother wasn’t going to come back. No matter how much rebellion she indulged in, it wasn’t going to heal her scars. She had to suck it up and do what she’d always done, go forward, take care of herself and show a world determined to break her that Connie Murphy didn’t break. It had made her too strong for that.
April 24, 1984
Twelve years old and her whole world changes. Twelve years old and Murphy realizes that Disney and fairy tales are a lie. Things don’t have happy endings. People who are supposed to love you forever don’t and when they don’t love you anymore, they leave. She’s twelve years old when she goes to bed and over night, something inside her grows up. When she wakes up the next morning she realizes that she can’t be a little kid anymore. Her mom’s gone so she’s running the household.
Her dad won’t be coming home for another two days because of work. Her grandmother is old and her hands shake when she tries to do things. Murphy’s got two good hands that don’t shake so she can peel potatoes for dinner. She can help pick up clothes for the laundry. She can do these things that her mother would do because her mother’s not coming back. She can take care of herself because the person who’s supposed to do it can’t anymore. Chose not to. So Murphy grows up and learns to do things for herself because at twelve years old, she’s realized that no one’s going to do them for you. Even the people who are supposed to.
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January 03, 1989
Blind panic drives Murphy to her knees by her father’s side. He doesn’t look good. His eyes are wide, but they’re not focused on her. She keeps calling to him, but he’s not answering. She’s so scared. Her dad isn’t supposed to be like this. He’s supposed to be a huge, overbearing presence that drives her crazy. He’s not supposed to be on the floor, looking weak and scared. Her dad was never scared.
Instinct takes over and she grabs the phone from the hall table. She babbles something at the 911 operator and then goes back to her dad’s side. Health class training wasn’t the best instruction for CPR, but it’s all she knows, so she breaths air into her dad’s lungs and then starts pressing on his chest. She counts through the tears. She keeps up the rhythm, breath, count, cry, until her dad sucks in a breath on his own and the paramedics storm in the house. Sitting the back of the ambulance, she lets the nice paramedic tell her it’s going to be okay. She lets herself believe it for the first time in five years.
When nothing changes, she lets the last of her hope slip away. Five years of taking care of herself wasn’t just a test. It wasn’t suddenly going to get better. There was no fairy godmother for her. She was on her own, honestly and truly. Nothing was going to change that.
Her dad could have a heart attack and he’d still work long hours. She could call all the relatives she could find, but her mother wasn’t going to come back. No matter how much rebellion she indulged in, it wasn’t going to heal her scars. She had to suck it up and do what she’d always done, go forward, take care of herself and show a world determined to break her that Connie Murphy didn’t break. It had made her too strong for that.