Quiet Drive (Semi-Autobio)
Quiet Drive
Semi-autobiographical vignettes I wrote recently. I'm thinking of translating them into an animation for my final senior project at AIB.
Author: Shady F.
Warnings: language, depressing
I. August 1998 (A)
It was a pretty average day. I'd just spent about eight hours at the day car that was down the street from my mum's place with my brother and the other kids. Being naive, I didn't think anything of it when my mum didn't come to pick us up like usual. One of the workers at the daycare did instead, a fake smile plastered on her face.
Quiet drive.
When we pulled up there was a police car in the driveway, and another car that wasn't ours. My brother and I walked up the front porch as we were left to trump through the familiar dungeon. The cop whose car was in the driveway passed us silently, bowing his head politely as we stepped through the front door out of the sticky heat.
My heart sank when I saw my friend's dad, also the minister at our church, consoling my mum. Her eyes were blood red, her cheeks tear stained. The minister's words went through me like a bullet:
"Your father is dead."
II. August 1998 (B)
When you're younger, you really don't think about the full consequences of death. You don't understand what death insinuates. You know that you lost something, but you don't really understand the full meaning of it until other people around you bring it up. You don't understand that the body isn't always going to be under the ground, it's not always going to be sleeping forever.
"Hey, Sarah, have you seen your dad's grave yet?" one boy asked me.
I shook my head. I was playing with Legos and I thought this kid was a jerk. He and some other kid on the playground had once spit on a stick, stuck it in the sand and prodded me with it until I cried. Why would I want to talk to him now?
"Do you know what he's going to look like in a few months?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"He's going to start melting. His eyes'll start popping out of his head!" he exclaimed, motioning with his eyes and his hands.
I've never felt so sick in my life before since then.
III. November 2007
I was so pissed at my mum. If my door had a lock on it, it would have been double bolted. Instead all I could do was lean against it as she yelled at me, told me I had to go to youth group that night. She didn't understand me at all.
God was a sham. Christianity was bullshit. What kind of God would take my dad away without warning? What kind of God would make my dad regret so much that he ended up being sick? Whoever it was, they weren't someone who I was going to say was my friend.
"Sarah, you will go to youth group whether you like it or not!" my mum yelled, trying to push against the door.
"You can't make me."
We both knew she was going to win in the end, but why couldn't I make a stand? She wouldn't listen to me if I told her how I really felt about God and the lack thereof anyway. I remember I started crying quietly right there, wishing my dad was back, because he was more like me. He would have understood perfectly, and he wouldn't have made me go into a church against my will.
"I hate you!" I blurted, sobbing even louder.
What I didn't know that night was that I wasn't the only one sobbing.
I was only a bratty teenager when this happened, but I regret making my mum cry even to this day.
IV. May 2008
I tossed my hat into the air along with everyone else at graduation, and I watched as they flew into the air and fell like spring time hail onto the bleachers and the green grass. It's amazing how fast the mind moves in such a split second. Even right now I can't believe it:
In ten seconds, I thought about everything that I knew I was missing in the life.
Dad never saw me go on my first date. Dad never saw me go to my first day of high school and finish out with my last. He would never see me go off to art school and he would never see me graduate from there. He would never walk me down the aisle and start my own family. He would never see what had become of my mum and my brother.
Maybe it wasn't my loss after all.
It was his.
V. November 2009
I've learned way more than I had ought to in the past year talking to my mum. She told me about that day when she called the day care in a panic, having just found out what had happened to my dad. That, in turn with some growing up, I guess changed me, and not in a way I'm sure that I'm okay with.
I didn't really understand what everyone meant when they said that my dad was mentally sick. I didn't understand that he disappeared for random bouts of time not because of his work, but because he was trying to visit therapists and try out different prescriptions. It makes me realize that I never knew my dad at all. All those smiles, those jokes, his laughter, it's all just a cover up.
My dad thought that the world would be better without him.
It should break my heart, but it doesn't.
He left behind broken ties between his sister and his wife. He left behind a son who needed a father figure in his life. He left behind his daughter, who used to be a such a daddy's little girl who sat on his knee every time he started playing on the computer.
And my mum--she was so alone, she's been alone for the last ten-plus years. She's used to being alone. She was alone with my brother dropped out of college, when her brother and father died, when she had to sell the house to take care of my ailing grandma. It's not like she let my dad's suicide completely ruin her. She worked a full-time job, put aside money for my brother and I to go to college. My mum started going back to college herself just recently, and she's pursuing a degree in Psychology.
I'm so proud of my mum. She's dealt with so much shit in her life, but she's never given up. Still though, I can feel her pain. There's still part of her that really hurts, that will never heal. She still really misses him and sometimes I've even seen her cry about it, and that's when I know that the wound isn't as healed as it looks.
My dad hurt my mum, and I fucking hate him for it.
I'll never forgive him.
I don't even miss him anymore.
Semi-autobiographical vignettes I wrote recently. I'm thinking of translating them into an animation for my final senior project at AIB.
Author: Shady F.
Warnings: language, depressing
I. August 1998 (A)
It was a pretty average day. I'd just spent about eight hours at the day car that was down the street from my mum's place with my brother and the other kids. Being naive, I didn't think anything of it when my mum didn't come to pick us up like usual. One of the workers at the daycare did instead, a fake smile plastered on her face.
Quiet drive.
When we pulled up there was a police car in the driveway, and another car that wasn't ours. My brother and I walked up the front porch as we were left to trump through the familiar dungeon. The cop whose car was in the driveway passed us silently, bowing his head politely as we stepped through the front door out of the sticky heat.
My heart sank when I saw my friend's dad, also the minister at our church, consoling my mum. Her eyes were blood red, her cheeks tear stained. The minister's words went through me like a bullet:
"Your father is dead."
II. August 1998 (B)
When you're younger, you really don't think about the full consequences of death. You don't understand what death insinuates. You know that you lost something, but you don't really understand the full meaning of it until other people around you bring it up. You don't understand that the body isn't always going to be under the ground, it's not always going to be sleeping forever.
"Hey, Sarah, have you seen your dad's grave yet?" one boy asked me.
I shook my head. I was playing with Legos and I thought this kid was a jerk. He and some other kid on the playground had once spit on a stick, stuck it in the sand and prodded me with it until I cried. Why would I want to talk to him now?
"Do you know what he's going to look like in a few months?" he asked.
"No," I said.
"He's going to start melting. His eyes'll start popping out of his head!" he exclaimed, motioning with his eyes and his hands.
I've never felt so sick in my life before since then.
III. November 2007
I was so pissed at my mum. If my door had a lock on it, it would have been double bolted. Instead all I could do was lean against it as she yelled at me, told me I had to go to youth group that night. She didn't understand me at all.
God was a sham. Christianity was bullshit. What kind of God would take my dad away without warning? What kind of God would make my dad regret so much that he ended up being sick? Whoever it was, they weren't someone who I was going to say was my friend.
"Sarah, you will go to youth group whether you like it or not!" my mum yelled, trying to push against the door.
"You can't make me."
We both knew she was going to win in the end, but why couldn't I make a stand? She wouldn't listen to me if I told her how I really felt about God and the lack thereof anyway. I remember I started crying quietly right there, wishing my dad was back, because he was more like me. He would have understood perfectly, and he wouldn't have made me go into a church against my will.
"I hate you!" I blurted, sobbing even louder.
What I didn't know that night was that I wasn't the only one sobbing.
I was only a bratty teenager when this happened, but I regret making my mum cry even to this day.
IV. May 2008
I tossed my hat into the air along with everyone else at graduation, and I watched as they flew into the air and fell like spring time hail onto the bleachers and the green grass. It's amazing how fast the mind moves in such a split second. Even right now I can't believe it:
In ten seconds, I thought about everything that I knew I was missing in the life.
Dad never saw me go on my first date. Dad never saw me go to my first day of high school and finish out with my last. He would never see me go off to art school and he would never see me graduate from there. He would never walk me down the aisle and start my own family. He would never see what had become of my mum and my brother.
Maybe it wasn't my loss after all.
It was his.
V. November 2009
I've learned way more than I had ought to in the past year talking to my mum. She told me about that day when she called the day care in a panic, having just found out what had happened to my dad. That, in turn with some growing up, I guess changed me, and not in a way I'm sure that I'm okay with.
I didn't really understand what everyone meant when they said that my dad was mentally sick. I didn't understand that he disappeared for random bouts of time not because of his work, but because he was trying to visit therapists and try out different prescriptions. It makes me realize that I never knew my dad at all. All those smiles, those jokes, his laughter, it's all just a cover up.
My dad thought that the world would be better without him.
It should break my heart, but it doesn't.
He left behind broken ties between his sister and his wife. He left behind a son who needed a father figure in his life. He left behind his daughter, who used to be a such a daddy's little girl who sat on his knee every time he started playing on the computer.
And my mum--she was so alone, she's been alone for the last ten-plus years. She's used to being alone. She was alone with my brother dropped out of college, when her brother and father died, when she had to sell the house to take care of my ailing grandma. It's not like she let my dad's suicide completely ruin her. She worked a full-time job, put aside money for my brother and I to go to college. My mum started going back to college herself just recently, and she's pursuing a degree in Psychology.
I'm so proud of my mum. She's dealt with so much shit in her life, but she's never given up. Still though, I can feel her pain. There's still part of her that really hurts, that will never heal. She still really misses him and sometimes I've even seen her cry about it, and that's when I know that the wound isn't as healed as it looks.
My dad hurt my mum, and I fucking hate him for it.
I'll never forgive him.
I don't even miss him anymore.