Aug 13, 2007 18:45
I could say that his smile was as cold and as empty as his wife’s place at the table.
I could say that his temper ran the gamut from aggressive to murderous to idle.
I could say that his ability to see both sides of a situation was non-existent and that his comprehension of happiness was measured only in degrees of triumph over someone weaker.
King of a small town. This was the mayor of Shelley’s Bend, Connecticut. This was my father.
I was adopted.
My hair was as blonde as his was black. After my mom left, any vestige of familial pretense disappeared between us. We became room-mates who did our best to avoid each other until I was old enough to move out.
To this day, years later, I’ve never been comfortable having dinner at a friend’s place if their parents are still together and they have brothers and sisters that get along. It’s not that I’m resentful, it’s just that I don’t really know ‘what one does’ in that situation. I keep my head down and try to be polite as often as it occurs to me. I pretend to be what I see on television.
For me, nuclear-family normalcy is the twilight zone that I’ve never been comfortable around.
My bicycle was my best friend during those years. I explored the empty miles around this small town. The cops, knowing I was the mayor’s kid, gave me a lot of leeway.
I found my first body when I fourteen.
tags
abuse,
cold,
family