i've got skeletons...what are you gonna do about it?
this is my NCTE contest submission. i figured it's time i share.
The slow, silent draft of a quickly opened door. Two beats of silence. As if summoning will from deep within, the gruff voice softly calls, “You awake?” Silence.
Why are you here? Stop trying to care.. Just leave me alone, pouts the voice in my head, muffled by the thick feathers of my fortress. Leave, it repeats, and he does. Whoosh. Hesitation. Soft Click.
Feeling the emptiness of the room, I shift and open my eyes to the dim afternoon light. A heavy metallic slam of the door’s aluminum frame. Crunching gravel under tires. A strange tension eases throughout the house as it follows that car down the road.
Events of the past few days replay in my head, too surreal even for Hollywood. Things in this family seem to go from bad to worse, strange to unbelievable, beyond dysfunction. Lately reassuring myself has become a daily ritual necessary for my own mental well-being and overall survival. I tell myself that things can only improve, yet as the story rewinds itself over and over behind my eyes, I cannot help but wonder if this is no more than wishful thinking.
We sat at the stop sign for close to five minutes. My ears rang with the sharp words still floating, bouncing against my skull as though trying to imprint themselves in my thoughts carbon copy. Rachel put the car in gear and drove on down the winding road to our grandmother’s house. The ride seemed to last forever, but once the car had halted at its final destination, I wished she had driven more slowly. Perhaps ten miles per hour below the speed limit instead of five?
As the shock slowly unfolded from me, I found questions pouring from my lips, unable to be stopped, like the blood from a fresh wound. How did you find out? How long has it been? Have you told anyone? Where did He get it? Was it her? Does He know you know? Is He getting help? What about his job? How could He do this to us? Why would He do this to us? Why? Why? Why? “WHY?” I finally screamed through sobs. “Why would He do something so stupid when He knows how much we need him right now?”
Rachel sat in the driver’s seat staring ahead, not wanting to look her baby sister in the face, feeling somehow as if she had been the one to let me down instead of Him. Inhaling a sharp, deep breath that tears the lungs, she turned to me and began to explain.
About a month ago she began to notice Him acting strangely, sneaking around, looking paler than usual. He made excuses, lied about money, lied to her, lied to his mother. He made strange phone calls, went on business trips without the company car, spent less and less time at home. Noticing that He had been spending an unusual amount of time in the tool shed behind the house, she searched for the telltale signs of her worst fear. A hard, yellow, resinous substance; shredded Brillo pads-the worst.
She left him a note-Dad, I know. We can help. -and put her faith in his hands. She told our uncles, whom she knew could take action, but told few others. He said he checked himself into an outpatient clinic, but He lies with the ease of breath. She suspected her. I hate her.
Rachel left the indefinite questions to hang in the air between us, dense with uncertainty. Blotched and sodden, I unearthed a rough napkin from the glove compartment and wiped my face. The words repeated in my head on a constant loop, the intonation sounded with the precision of her lips. “He’s sick…” she had said. “Stop sugarcoating, Rachel. I’m not a child,” I shoved back. “…Dad’s a crack addict.” The words slammed into me, my body falling leaden to the ground.
Rewinding. Repeating. Rewinding. Repeating. It began to take on a singsong rhythm as it went on and on, over and over. I laughed. The sound trickled bitterly as I thought of the irony and timing of it all.
My father’s a crack addict. Yippee Skippy. Just when I need you, POOF! You vanish into thin air.
“I’m not ready,” I said, drying the tears that had once again crept into the corners of my eyes. I could not bring myself face to face with those people, all knowing the pain burning deep in my chest, making frail attempts to comfort me. “Okay,” Rachel said, and we pulled out of the driveway once again, still too vulnerable for the pitiful eyes and sympathetic words, like the burn of alcohol in a cut, only trying to help.
I glance at the clock-6 PM. I should have known. The television blares at the front of the house. The crowd chants, “WHEEL. OF. FORTUNE!” My bare feet hit the grimy floor and restlessness takes over me. Reaching for my journal and pen, I head for the door. Down the hall. Echoing cadence against the walls. Past sleeping Gram, face glued to the vinyl couch. Through the door, the clash of metal and rattling glass bidding me farewell. Stepping into the unseasonable humidity, the hairs on my neck prick with static.
I sit, contemplating the vast openness surrounding me. The gray clouds envelop from the west, spilling their ink across the charming blue of the Louisiana sky. I know how it feels to be surrounded, I sympathize, condoling the sky in its losing battle. I know the sharp lightning rips your delicate skin. I know the heaviness in your ears. Where can we hide? These words hit the paper in my scrawling, uncertain hand.
Tires crunching gravel. My shoulders tense as the car door slams. “What’cha doin’?” Rachel pipes, craning her neck over my shoulder. “Writing,” I crossly reply, almost cringing at the sound of her voice. “Oh, so I guess you want to be left alone?” Silence. “Too bad. I came home specifically to bother you because that’s my job as an older sister.”
Slam. “Hey, what’s going on out here?” my brother Joseph practically yells in his overly boisterous voice. Great, I think. Party. “She’s writing,” Rachel teases. “We, dear brother, are not good enough for her. She has to talk to the imaginary people in her journal for company. Or would it be you’re talking to yourself? I don’t know. Either way, you’re really freakin’ weird. But ya know what? I have news for you. As your siblings, Joseph and I will always be here, always bother you, and always force you to talk to us, whether you like it or not.”
For the first time in a week, a laugh escapes my lips that sounds somewhat genuine. “What was that? Did you hear the odd noise coming from that strange, sullen girl?” Rachel asks with feigned confusion. We both giggle as the storm clouds thicken above us, and thunder pounds our ears. Together we sit as the ominous gray rolls overhead, menacing and threatening to smother us in its midst. Glancing at the sky, none of us move, content in the security of each other’s presences.
Though none of us could control our father and how or whether or not he recovered, we relied upon each other, our family, to share in the trials. Without my sister’s strong hands to pull us up, my brother’s sympathy to make us feel kindred, and my tough love to put us all back in the game, we would be lying on the ground, bleeding our lives
away, every obstacle still looming overhead. I received a call from my brother one Sunday last June, only to crumple into tears at the comprehension of his words. My father has since passed away, but our hearts have not taken this lesson lightly or without stride. I have grown as a person and radically altered my perception of life’s worth. I no longer view small hindrances as the end of the road, for I have faith that I will be able to rise above with the help of my family. We share in the trauma of these scraped knees and bruised elbows, and we know how to make the pain more bearable for each other. In time, our wounds will heal and our scars will be left somewhere on the skin, fading with the passing years.
The slow, silent draft of a quickly opened door. Two beats of silence. As if summoning will from deep within, the gruff voice softly calls, “You awake?” Silence.
Why are you here? Stop trying to care.. Just leave me alone, pouts the voice in my head, muffled by the thick feathers of my fortress. Leave, it repeats, and he does. Whoosh. Hesitation. Soft Click.
Feeling the emptiness of the room, I shift and open my eyes to the dim afternoon light. A heavy metallic slam of the door’s aluminum frame. Crunching gravel under tires. A strange tension eases throughout the house as it follows that car down the road.
Events of the past few days replay in my head, too surreal even for Hollywood. Things in this family seem to go from bad to worse, strange to unbelievable, beyond dysfunction. Lately reassuring myself has become a daily ritual necessary for my own mental well-being and overall survival. I tell myself that things can only improve, yet as the story rewinds itself over and over behind my eyes, I cannot help but wonder if this is no more than wishful thinking.
We sat at the stop sign for close to five minutes. My ears rang with the sharp words still floating, bouncing against my skull as though trying to imprint themselves in my thoughts carbon copy. Rachel put the car in gear and drove on down the winding road to our grandmother’s house. The ride seemed to last forever, but once the car had halted at its final destination, I wished she had driven more slowly. Perhaps ten miles per hour below the speed limit instead of five?
As the shock slowly unfolded from me, I found questions pouring from my lips, unable to be stopped, like the blood from a fresh wound. How did you find out? How long has it been? Have you told anyone? Where did He get it? Was it her? Does He know you know? Is He getting help? What about his job? How could He do this to us? Why would He do this to us? Why? Why? Why? “WHY?” I finally screamed through sobs. “Why would He do something so stupid when He knows how much we need him right now?”
Rachel sat in the driver’s seat staring ahead, not wanting to look her baby sister in the face, feeling somehow as if she had been the one to let me down instead of Him. Inhaling a sharp, deep breath that tears the lungs, she turned to me and began to explain.
About a month ago she began to notice Him acting strangely, sneaking around, looking paler than usual. He made excuses, lied about money, lied to her, lied to his mother. He made strange phone calls, went on business trips without the company car, spent less and less time at home. Noticing that He had been spending an unusual amount of time in the tool shed behind the house, she searched for the telltale signs of her worst fear. A hard, yellow, resinous substance; shredded Brillo pads-the worst.
She left him a note-Dad, I know. We can help. -and put her faith in his hands. She told our uncles, whom she knew could take action, but told few others. He said he checked himself into an outpatient clinic, but He lies with the ease of breath. She suspected her. I hate her.
Rachel left the indefinite questions to hang in the air between us, dense with uncertainty. Blotched and sodden, I unearthed a rough napkin from the glove compartment and wiped my face. The words repeated in my head on a constant loop, the intonation sounded with the precision of her lips. “He’s sick…” she had said. “Stop sugarcoating, Rachel. I’m not a child,” I shoved back. “…Dad’s a crack addict.” The words slammed into me, my body falling leaden to the ground.
Rewinding. Repeating. Rewinding. Repeating. It began to take on a singsong rhythm as it went on and on, over and over. I laughed. The sound trickled bitterly as I thought of the irony and timing of it all.
My father’s a crack addict. Yippee Skippy. Just when I need you, POOF! You vanish into thin air.
“I’m not ready,” I said, drying the tears that had once again crept into the corners of my eyes. I could not bring myself face to face with those people, all knowing the pain burning deep in my chest, making frail attempts to comfort me. “Okay,” Rachel said, and we pulled out of the driveway once again, still too vulnerable for the pitiful eyes and sympathetic words, like the burn of alcohol in a cut, only trying to help.
I glance at the clock-6 PM. I should have known. The television blares at the front of the house. The crowd chants, “WHEEL. OF. FORTUNE!” My bare feet hit the grimy floor and restlessness takes over me. Reaching for my journal and pen, I head for the door. Down the hall. Echoing cadence against the walls. Past sleeping Gram, face glued to the vinyl couch. Through the door, the clash of metal and rattling glass bidding me farewell. Stepping into the unseasonable humidity, the hairs on my neck prick with static.
I sit, contemplating the vast openness surrounding me. The gray clouds envelop from the west, spilling their ink across the charming blue of the Louisiana sky. I know how it feels to be surrounded, I sympathize, condoling the sky in its losing battle. I know the sharp lightning rips your delicate skin. I know the heaviness in your ears. Where can we hide? These words hit the paper in my scrawling, uncertain hand.
Tires crunching gravel. My shoulders tense as the car door slams. “What’cha doin’?” Rachel pipes, craning her neck over my shoulder. “Writing,” I crossly reply, almost cringing at the sound of her voice. “Oh, so I guess you want to be left alone?” Silence. “Too bad. I came home specifically to bother you because that’s my job as an older sister.”
Slam. “Hey, what’s going on out here?” my brother Joseph practically yells in his overly boisterous voice. Great, I think. Party. “She’s writing,” Rachel teases. “We, dear brother, are not good enough for her. She has to talk to the imaginary people in her journal for company. Or would it be you’re talking to yourself? I don’t know. Either way, you’re really freakin’ weird. But ya know what? I have news for you. As your siblings, Joseph and I will always be here, always bother you, and always force you to talk to us, whether you like it or not.”
For the first time in a week, a laugh escapes my lips that sounds somewhat genuine. “What was that? Did you hear the odd noise coming from that strange, sullen girl?” Rachel asks with feigned confusion. We both giggle as the storm clouds thicken above us, and thunder pounds our ears. Together we sit as the ominous gray rolls overhead, menacing and threatening to smother us in its midst. Glancing at the sky, none of us move, content in the security of each other’s presences.
Though none of us could control our father and how or whether or not he recovered, we relied upon each other, our family, to share in the trials. Without my sister’s strong hands to pull us up, my brother’s sympathy to make us feel kindred, and my tough love to put us all back in the game, we would be lying on the ground, bleeding our lives
away, every obstacle still looming overhead. I received a call from my brother one Sunday last June, only to crumple into tears at the comprehension of his words. My father has since passed away, but our hearts have not taken this lesson lightly or without stride. I have grown as a person and radically altered my perception of life’s worth. I no longer view small hindrances as the end of the road, for I have faith that I will be able to rise above with the help of my family. We share in the trauma of these scraped knees and bruised elbows, and we know how to make the pain more bearable for each other. In time, our wounds will heal and our scars will be left somewhere on the skin, fading with the passing years.