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*TRIGGER WARNING**drugs & alcohol abuse, childhood trauma, violence, sexuality, infidelity, suicide, mental health.*
This is me. I was born into a lower middle class family. My mother was a homemaker. My father was a drug addict. In grade school, they relentlessly teased me for having big ears. “Dumbo!” they’d scream and laugh. “Can you fly?” they’d giggle. If I could fly, I would have flown away and never looked back. As a child, I physically and emotionally tormented my little sister. I did not, and will never, deserve her forgiveness. I lost my virginity at 11, to my 16-year-old neighbor who was angry with her boyfriend. At 12, I started hanging with the wrong crowd, looking for a place to fit in.Still out of place, I lost my friend to a bullet meant for someone else. This is me. In junior high, the popular girls wouldn’t look in my direction, but on summer vacation, dating me couldn’t ruin their reputation. As a freshman in high school, I felt the stir of depression taking root inside my brain. Sophomore year, I started drinking excessively to silence the sadness inside. At 16, I became depressed and suicidal. Before my 17th birthday, I made two unsuccessful attempts to end the pain. Soon, alcohol became my crutch. I drank to forget. I drank, hoping to black out and never wake up. At 18, I got engaged to my high school girlfriend, with no intention of marrying her. For the next four years, I cheated on her with any woman who showed interest. This is me. At 22, I met someone new. I broke off my engagement over the phone. My fiancé was in London. I got married at 24, to a broken woman I was hoping I could fix. She was an addict, and I was slipping into darkness. Alcohol and narcotic pain medication hijacked my life from age 25 to 27. At 28, with a two-year-old son and a wife on drugs, I hit rock bottom. Her addiction and my depression were too much for a young marriage to survive. Three months after my 30th birthday, my daughter was born into a broken home, to parents who hated the sight of each other. At 31, I was a divorced father of two, living alone, with a depression that was reaching a boiling point. Lying in a closet, with no phone, no light, and no food or water, I felt myself giving in to the misery. At hour 52, I realized I wouldn’t be missed. Handcuffed, and chained to the inside of an ambulance, I would spend the next 4 days in a psychiatric ward, “a danger to myself and others.” My mother was there at my discharge. She drove me to my apartment, packed my stuff, and took me 900 miles east. My babies came to live with me 4 months later, until my ex filed for custody...for only our daughter. At 33, a judge decided to separate my children. She “felt a daughter needs her mother, and a son his father.” The depression and pain of losing my daughter mixed into a dangerous cocktail. Anger became the easiest emotion to express. Combined with whiskey, I became a nightmare. Friends left. Family kept their distance. Self sabotage was my favorite pastime. This is me. Now, I’m 41. I take 6 medications twice a day to keep the depression at bay. I no longer feel the weight of sadness, but neither can I feel the warmth of pure joy. I use humor to camouflage the sadness of each new day. I hide my insecurities behind a false bravado. Low self esteem behind an inflated ego. I’ve been broken, the pieces scattered, some lost forever. Everything I’ve been through has led me here, to this moment. Some days are easier than others, but my scars run deep. I am far from perfect, but I will not be ashamed, because… This. This is me.
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I was 10 years old the day I found him. I had just gotten home from school, and was brooding over the stresses of my prepubescent life as I used the key around my neck to unlock the front door. When I stepped inside, I could see the door to the bathroom was open and the light was on. Thinking I’d left it on before school, I hurriedly went to flip the switch before my parents got home.
When I found him, he was half submerged in the bathtub, his chin resting slightly under water. His right arm dangled lifelessly from the side of the tub, dripping water into an already mucky pink puddle. Vomit enveloped his body, for which I was thankful; I had never seen my father naked. The stench smacked me in the face, testing my willpower not to vomit, or simply turn and run. I was frozen in fear, as I stared at my father covered in his own blood and regurgitation. My mother found us two hours later. I was curled in a ball, head between my knees, left hand clutching my father’s cold right hand. I remember her saying my name, telling me to let go of my father’s hand, but the blood rushing through my ears muffled her voice. It took three E.M.T.s to pry me away from my father, and even with three grown men, I remember putting up a valiant fight. My mother took my hand, the same hand that had held my father’s and guided me slowly to the front yard. I watched as they wheeled the gurney into the ambulance, shut the door, and started the engine. As they drove away, I recalled a saying I had overheard some years before; “If an ambulance drives away without their lights and sirens, the patient is already dead.” I watched in silence as they drove away in complete darkness. That night, my mother sat me and my sister down and told us our dad was dead. She said words like, drugs, cocaine, and overdose. She told us not to be scared, but I was terrified. I looked into my little sister’s eyes and saw disbelief and incomprehension. I knew she understood the idea of death, but I wasn't sure she realized her daddy was never coming home again. For the first time in many years, I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. The nightmares kept me up most the night. I dreamt of holding my dead father’s hand. I dreamt of his lifeless body rising from the tub, dragging me with him into an open grave full of blood and vomit. When the phone rang at 3:13am I was already wide awake, searching every corner for moving shadows. As I eavesdropped on my mother’s conversation in the other room, I heard her scream and the phone hit the floor. I leapt from the top bunk, not worried about waking my sleeping sister and rushed to my parent’s room. The phone lay shattered on the hardwood floor, as my mother sat with her face in her hands. Her sobs were deep, soulful, wracking sobs, shaking her entire body. I had never seen my mother cry, and I felt myself freezing up again. She lowered her hands, looked at me with eyes as red as sapphire and mumbled, “your father is alive.” 12 MONTHS LATER The previous twelve months had been the most difficult of my short life. My father had died and come back to life, and I wasn't mentally or emotionally equipped to handle it. Our father-son relationship had deteriorated, mostly because I didn’t know how to act around him. I had held his hand when he was a corpse, I had listened to my mother tell me he was never coming home again, but there he was. I was a child lost in a world of adult problems, and I was losing my sanity. It wasn’t until my 11th birthday that I realized my father spent more and more of his time away. When he missed my birthday, I built up the courage to ask him where he'd been. He said words like, drugs, cocaine, and rehabilitation. He spoke to me with a shame in his eyes I had never seen, and would hope to never see again. Yet, behind that shame I saw hope and determination, and I knew whatever rehabilitation was it was changing him. He asked me if I would like to be a part of his new beginning. I told him I loved him, and would do what he needed of me. Two months after my birthday, my father got dressed in his nicest suit and tie. He combed his hair the way my mother always liked, and put on the aftershave she loved so much. I put on my Easter suit, although Easter was still a month away. I remember taking a picture with my father, the two of us dressed like movie stars, smiling together like we hadn't done in over a year. My father drove us to a small building made of brick in the middle of an industrial park. There was no name stenciled on the building or a neon sign advertising it's function. We parked the Volkswagen in the back among a few dozen other cars, and entered the building through the door opposite the street. We walked into a crowd of people, most seated in fold out chairs, but a few standing by coffee pots and open boxes of donuts. The noise was loud, but not unbearable, just the sound of thirty or so people talking amongst themselves. My father led me through the gaggle of men and women and ushered me up a set of stairs. He grabbed my hand and took me to a staging area where a man sat with his hands clasped over his large belly. He and my father exchanged happy smiles, a handshake, and the man placed a small coin in my father's palm. He thanked the man, hugged him, and we watched him descend the stairs. A few moments passed between my father and I in complete silence before the P.A. system blared to life. I couldn't see the man speaking because we were standing backstage, but I could tell it was the same man who had given my father the coin. "Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you for coming today. Today is a special day. A day of happiness and new beginnings. Today we celebrate the life of a man who has chosen to change. This man hit bottom harder than most. At one point he was declared dead from an overdose, but God saw a reason to send him back, and He did. Today he is 12 months sober, and that is worth celebration.” I looked up at my father, his eyes full of tears, and a smile on his face. He turned to me, kissed my forehead, and told me this was all for me. He hugged me harder than he'd ever done before, stood up, and rubbed his hands together. He heard the curtain go up, the applause, and stepped out on the stage. Today he would start his new life, and I would be there to hold his hand along the way. Hands and feet down one of the greatest novels ever written! Sure it was first published in 1992, and the character in the book was born six years before my mother, but that doesn't matter. It's a story about growing up. Being a boy, whether it be in the 60's or today, means living hard, fast, and learning from your mistakes. It's a book about friends, family, bonds, and heartbreak. It's about the South in a time when the color of your skin meant more than the content of your soul. Yes, I agree, it may not be the perfect read for a woman, don't get me wrong a woman has every right to read it, but it speaks to the boy inside every man. A time when you still believed in the magic of every day life. Every movie you saw became a reality when you tucked yourself into bed and shut off the lights. When making friends came as easy as breathing, and losing them was the toughest burden to bear. It's a story about a boy and his dreams, both big and small. About a family on the verge of losing everything. A story about the true meaning of friends and enemies. About a time when boys could fly, when the power of thought could change the definition of life and death, and the strongest shoulders to lean on may come in the unlikliest of forms. I am urging every man born from 1940 to 1995 to head to your local bookstore, pick up a copy of Boy's Life by Robert R. McCammon and do yourself a favor by losing yourself in the childhood you left behind. You will not regret it. You may be asking, what does this book have to do with horror? A good question. This is the 3rd novel I have read by McCammon, and the first that wasn't outright "horror". Yet, the mood, the setting, the characters, and their deeds, make for some very real chills. To me, McCammon is the master at capturing human emotion and dialogue. Every word uttered, every emotion felt by his characters will have you whisked away to a point in your life where you felt that same feeling. I've read all the classics, I have most of them on my bookshelves in my office, yet this book has firmly claimed its spot in my top three novels ever written. Pick it up, find a comfortable chair, turn on your reading light, and dive deep into your past. Enjoy.
 Here's my next "prompt," for those of you that care...I just had to free write about "Eternal Love," so this is what I came up with. Keep in mind, I don't check for punctuation or anything like that, I just write until I feel like I can't write any more without stopping. I hope you enjoy it, or hate it. Either way, let me know what you think....
Lorraine set the book down on the table next to her sweet tea. The glass was sweating a puddle in the oppressive Southern summer heat. Pushing herself from her rocking chair on the porch, her arthritic knees crackled and popped like gunshots. She carried her slight, 79 year old frame, waddling from the pain in her joints, but head still high like the Southern Belle she’d always fancied herself to be, through the screen door into the house. Glancing at the photo albums spread out on the floor in the living room, she strode purposefully into the bedroom. She had already opened the safe before she had retired to bed the evening prior, fearing she may not have had the nerve to open it when the time came. With more cacophony she bent her weary frame, reached inside and pulled out Henry’s Glock-19. It had been a gift from his captain after he retired from the force. She couldn’t remember him ever having fired the weapon in the 22 years since. Before picking herself up, she made sure it was loaded, pushing the clip in with a clack. Limping slowly, she made her way through the hall into the kitchen. Searching the “junk,” drawer, she found the silver lighter emblazoned with the SDPD insignia. Gun in one hand, lighter in the other, she made her way into the living room. Her eyes began to water as she looked at all their memories strewn about the room. Pictures of their wedding, the honeymoon they shared in Yellowstone, the years Henry spent in uniform, all taken from the protective sleeve of their individual albums and tossed about without care. Seeing how many photographs were piled on the rug she realized just how long she and Henry had shared their lives together. She choked back a sob. Surveying the mess, her eyes came to rest on the wedding photograph, framed, sitting atop the mantle Henry had built for her some 50 years previous. She thought what a poetic finality. Reaching up, she grabbed the silver frame, wiped a layer of dust from outer edges, and slammed the glass against the hard wood of the fireplace. Shattered glass littered her bare feet. She pulled the old photo from the remnants of the frame, and then let it drop to the floor. Holding the ancient, almost brittle picture she took a deep breath and set the gun on the edge of the mantle. She turned toward the mess on the floor, taking in every last memory. A smile crept from the corners of her mouth amidst the tears. Flipping open the lighter she flicked the flint, a small yellowish flame leapt to life. She touched the flame to the corner of the old photograph and watched for a few seconds as it smoldered. When the flames had eaten half the picture she dropped it among the others lain across the floor. She waited as the smoke began to billow up from the small fire in the living room. Satisfied the fire would catch the rest of the house; she turned and grabbed the gun. Turning her back on the past, now engulfed in roaring flames, she made her way to the porch. As she walked through the door, she looked at Henry sitting in his rocking chair, directly next to hers. She could smell the shit that overflowed from his colostomy bag, a side effect of the chemotherapy. She could see the small line of drool dripping from his chin to rest in the puddle already growing on his shirt, a side effect of the stroke. Her once strong, smart, funny husband, now reduced to just a husk of a man. She shuffled up behind him, rubbed his patchy egg shaped head, and kissed him softly behind the ear. She was sure he didn’t even recognize she was touching him. After the chemo and the stroke he hadn’t moved on his own, or spoken a single word. She only had the hope that he knew how much she loved him. Lorraine placed the gun at the base of her husband’s skull, gripped the handle with both withered hands, and pulled the trigger. The sound was deafening. Even the cicadas ceased their chirruping. Lorraine placed her hand on Henry’s forehead and pulled his head back into an upright position. She wiped his blood on her long flowing skirt. She walked around the small table, picking up her sweet tea, taking a long voracious drink, before setting it back down. She lowered herself back into her chair, ignoring the protestation of her joints. She looked at the book on the table, reached for it, and brought it to her lap. She found her weathered, much used bookmark, and opened the book to the passage she had underlined many years ago. She began to read, John 10:28 "And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish; neither shall any pluck them out of my hand." She placed the gun in her mouth, teeth biting down on metal. The heat from the barrel against her tongue, she could taste the bitterness of her own flesh burning. She reached over, grabbed her husband’s lifeless hand in hers, closed her eyes, repeated the verse and went to meet her Henry once again. I was given a prompt for writing (an opening statement), and this is what I came up with. Thank you to everyone who gave me an idea, you guys really helped, and I appreciate it! Let me know what you guys think...
When he stepped out of the plane he was shocked to see her sitting there. Her legs crossed, right foot moving up and down to a rhythm only she could hear. He stood in awe of her shoulder length brown hair, tucked neatly behind her ears. The way her glossy pink lips parted slightly as she read the novel resting in her lap. Even from this distance he could see the tiny freckles that dotted her nose and the top of her cheek bones. The way her blue eyes dart from side to side, twists his stomach in knots. He can swear he smells the coconut lotion she uses among the myriad of scents in the crowded waiting room. As the sight of her floods his mind with memories, he pauses in the doorway and journey’s back 10 years. She sits there on the love seat, her left knee gently brushing his right thigh. He can’t look her in the eyes; he doesn’t want to see her crying. He doesn’t want to see those beautiful eyes, those windows to her hopes and dreams, filled with pain, sadness, and regret. She holds his hand. She doesn’t hold it to feel close to him, she holds his hand to keep him from falling to pieces. The voice that has whispered “I love you,” “I need you,” “you’re my everything,” now screams “I’m leaving,” “I’m unhappy,” and “it’s over.” The bile has risen in his throat and he fears he will vomit if she doesn’t stop talking soon. Her words have caused more pain than he has ever experienced. He expects to look down and see each of her statements has left a bleeding wound. He knows he should have something to say in response, but he can think of nothing. He drifts to all the times they lay under covers, her head resting on his chest. Her hot breath on his bare skin, as her slender fingers caressed circles above his heart. Being in that moment and thinking “right here, right now, everything in the world is right.” He doesn’t know how this can be happening. How does unconditional love, planning a future, and growing old together turn to unanswered questions, unhappiness and drifting apart? His thoughts are spiraling as she’s saying his name. She’s calling him back, pulling him from the recesses of his mind. She’s asking him to say something. Anything. She wants to know he feels the same and it’s not just her. She needs to hear she’s not the bad guy. He finds himself telling her he feels the same, but he knows it’s a lie. Even as she is breaking his heart, he doesn’t want to cause her pain. Even as he feels her love slipping through his fingers, he hopes she can be happy someday. She’s calling his name again. Instead of sadness he can hear surprise in her voice. He’s trying to hold on to the memory of her smile, but the memory fades, as she calls out his name. He opens his eyes. He’s standing again in the doorway of the terminal. There she is standing in front of him, saying his name. She’s looking at him the way she used to. The way it used to cause butterflies from his head to his toes. There’s no sadness in her smile. Her eyes, the eyes he spent so many nights lost in, are filled with tears of surprise and happiness. She reaches out and wraps her arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder. She’s whispering “I can’t believe it’s you, it’s really you,” and as he feels her in his arms and the smell of her skin envelops him, he can’t help but think, “right here, right now, everything in the world is right.” A few of you asked to read the end of the prompt I wrote last week, so here it is. I copied the first installment in case you wanted to read it in its entirety. I hope you like it, or hate it. As long as it makes you feel SOMETHING! When he stepped out of the plane he was shocked to see her sitting there. Her legs crossed, right foot moving up and down to a rhythm only she could hear. He stood in awe of her shoulder length brown hair, tucked neatly behind her ears. The way her glossy pink lips parted slightly as she read the novel resting in her lap. Even from this distance he could see the tiny freckles that dotted her nose and the top of her cheek bones. The way her blue eyes dart from side to side, twists his stomach in knots. He can swear he smells the coconut lotion she uses among the myriad of scents in the crowded waiting room. As the sight of her floods his mind with memories, he pauses in the doorway and journey’s back 10 years. She sits there on the love seat, her left knee gently brushing his right thigh. He can’t look her in the eyes; he doesn’t want to see her crying. He doesn’t want to see those beautiful eyes, those windows to her hopes and dreams, filled with pain, sadness, and regret. She holds his hand. She doesn’t hold it to feel close to him, she holds his hand to keep him from falling to pieces. The voice that has whispered “I love you,” “I need you,” “you’re my everything,” now screams “I’m leaving,” “I’m unhappy,” and “it’s over.” The bile has risen in his throat and he fears he will vomit if she doesn’t stop talking soon. Her words have caused more pain than he has ever experienced. He expects to look down and see each of her statements has left a bleeding wound. He knows he should have something to say in response, but he can think of nothing. He drifts to all the times they lay under covers, her head resting on his chest. Her hot breath on his bare skin, as her slender fingers caressed circles above his heart. Being in that moment and thinking “right here, right now, everything in the world is right.” He doesn’t know how this can be happening. How does unconditional love, planning a future, and growing old together turn to unanswered questions, unhappiness and drifting apart? His thoughts are spiraling as she’s saying his name. She’s calling him back, pulling him from the recesses of his mind. She’s asking him to say something. Anything. She wants to know he feels the same and it’s not just her. She needs to hear she’s not the bad guy. He finds himself telling her he feels the same, but he knows it’s a lie. Even as she is breaking his heart, he doesn’t want to cause her pain. Even as he feels her love slipping through his fingers, he hopes she can be happy someday. She’s calling his name again. Instead of sadness he can hear surprise in her voice. He’s trying to hold on to the memory of her smile, but the memory fades, as she calls out his name. He opens his eyes. He’s standing again in the doorway of the terminal. There she is standing in front of him, saying his name. She’s looking at him the way she used to. The way it used to cause butterflies from his head to his toes. There’s no sadness in her smile. Her eyes, the eyes he spent so many nights lost in, are filled with tears of surprise and happiness. She reaches out and wraps her arms around his neck and rests her head on his shoulder. She’s whispering “I can’t believe it’s you, it’s really you,” and as he feels her in his arms and the smell of her skin envelops him, he can’t help but think, “right here, right now, everything in the world is right.”... Part 2 …her hands still tightly gripping his neck, she pulled away and looked into his eyes. He could see how deeply time had changed her. The ever present sparkle had become a mere glint swimming in a pool of blue. He wanted to tell her he thought about her every day, and still kept a picture of her in his wallet. Ten years had weathered its edges and dulled its brightness, but the smile she wore still warm. He needed to tell her what a fool he’d been for letting her walk away. He should have fought for the love they shared. He should have reminded her of the future they had planned. Everything he wanted to say swirled in his mind as he watched a tear slip from her eye and roll softly down her cheek. She moved her hands into his, squeezing ever so slightly, as if to say, ‘We’re here together, but as two separate people.’ Peeling his stare from the glistening trail on her cheek, he watched a small boy approach. A blonde haired toddler with a nose exactly like his mother’s tugged gently on her shirt tail, a tall, handsome man two steps behind. He could hear her talking but couldn’t make out the words. She introduced him to her husband and the child they shared. He swallowed all the memories of the two of them, so sharp he almost choked. The butterflies all gone now, replaced with a sad resignation. She touched him on the shoulder, just a gesture to say goodbye. He didn’t want to see her leave, but he turned and watched her go. One hand holding her husbands, the other holding her sons, he saw how happy she had become. For ten years he had questioned how he could have made her smile. For ten years he had wondered if he could have made her happy. Watching her walk out of his life for a second time, he finally recognized that all things happen for a reason. He drove home in complete silence. The sound of the highway under the tires the only noise keeping his mind occupied. Pulling up to the house he lived in as a child, he thought of his parents, both long dead of cancer. Did they give him this house because they knew he’d come back one day? Did they know he’d come back the same way he’d left? Alone. He carried no bags for this journey needed no comforts. He made his way to the room he slept in as a child. Everything the same as it’d been when he’d left to live with his uncle when he was 12, except the thick layer of dust that had accumulated atop the furniture. He didn’t bother to pull down the moth eaten sheets, or cover himself in the tattered comforter. He lay in a bed far too small for him now, and cried for the first time in years. The disease that had claimed his parents now running rampant inside his own body, he cried for the things he never finished. For the words he never said. For the times he never touched her just to feel her softness. The times he never told her he loved her just because. Tears mixing with dust, he closed his eyes and thanked whoever was listening for letting him see her one last time. He had believed he’d come to this house and die alone, but with her scent upon his skin, and the vision of her smile in his mind, he took a deep breath, and let her memory caress him to sleep. Forever forked and poised
her words a poisoned pen. The tongue a lethal weapon that destroys what's never been. Love has died upon her lips respect will not survive. A broken man is left behind a hatred born to thrive. Licking his desiccated lips, he plays the bone saw like a cello. Back and forth. Chord after chord. The sound of steel teeth against human flesh is music in the still of night. His sonata of dismemberment has only just begun.
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Wordsmith
Free writing to keep the juices flowing.
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