(This story came to me from a distance. Sometimes we write and things come through us that we aren’t sure where they are coming from, we simply write someone else’s story, acting as a receiver. But then the feeling passes, and I still wanted to continue the story, so I embarked on this journey and have a few more chapters. I hope my twist on things will leave some closure. But if you’re out there, as I know you are, I hope you find your way.)
Chapter 1:
I had to do it. I had to run away. I had grown up in the city. A packed city. Tall buildings. Frantic car rides. But still the comforts of mom and dad arguing in the car. Usually about how to drive and that- well, never mind. We’ll just say directions.
So much pavement. And so many people. Each family and group of people comforted by each other’s company. Even if mom’s voice were aggravated, short and shrill. There was still dad’s comedic gestures and gentle voice. Their worlds matched up perfectly in looking back. She never stopped talking and he needed to work on lightening up. So after enough words, she’d wear him down and he’d be coy to get a few sly phrases in.
But they both did end up fighting and when two worlds, no matter how much they clash and collide and fight, when they separate and parish it’s like they both died in some way.
The family was never the same. I only have the lore and culture of them together to hold onto. But without both of their worlds taking place, things seem to dwindle. Pulling on a light switch only for it to burn out. Soon the streets became too noisy because my mother had quieted. The people were too plenty and I fit in no where. I had no place anymore. Not in the city. Not in the streets of San Francisco where the broken mind is left to inhabit a state of depression. Leaving me on the street if I were strong. Leaving me dead within a winter.
Dad said he’d always look out for me. But I learned that after the divorce, every daughter or son needs to have their dad around to know that they are losers at times, but life does go on. They’re strong because they have to be. A weak man is a sad case. Slumped in his chair, staring at the t.v screen. Waiting for something to happen.
Mom remarried, but it wasn’t right. I hated every guy that wasn’t my dad. They didn’t deserve the last bit of flare she had to share. To spare. She would get loud but it was empty without my dad on the receiving end. Some stupid guy, fitting in as an odd piece to a shattered puzzle. I give him credit though. He stuck around for as long or longer than dad.
Maybe I was just impressionable. But then again, I’d have been a success story if they embedded a stronger will to remain together. But time keeps moving, and I was stuck in the past. Not wanting to participate in this future. This crowded future. Who did I have to remain?
They say a best friend is like a guiding light. A personal hero. A sidekick. Partner in crime. I didn’t really have those anymore. But I wanted something. I needed a hero again. So I ran away.
It wasn’t all at once. But it came in pictures. Certain things that made sense. The amount of cars were obnoxious. Recognizing people by their car made more sense than not knowing anybody behind the wheel. I saw a truck pull out of a driveway. Usually the streets were filled, but only in this sunset was it clear. And it looked right. I can drive away from here. Save some money. Buy my truck, and drive away toward the country. Maybe not the country but barren land. Open roads. Not steeply travelled.
I started working. Hated most of that time. Did a lot of writing to pass the time. And binge eating. Looking forward to at least food after the fleeting conversations with customers. Sometimes, I’d be awestruck. Other times, annoyed. Always hoping to be intrigued. The walk home was always painful. In a circuit of streets jam packed with houses and cars on every road. No room to breathe. Like playing on an etcho-sketch the first time, being terrible at it, but still wishing there was more room. I didn’t belong in the city. But now I was getting older. Old enough to fear my neighbors. Old enough to distrust those people behind the wheel. I could merely be a stranger to them. What care would they have for me? Hopefully none in harm. But who’s to say in this day and age?
If you can’t tell, I’m a shattered human being. Very damaged. Waiting for a diagnosis but I know it’s beyond repair. If there is a place for me, I doubt I’ll find it. But maybe it’s out there in the travel. I can’t stay, letting my fears tear me apart even more. Slowly becoming more of a problem than I ever wished to become. So I kept working toward that car.
There were things that got me through. Old songs that lead to new purchased cd’s which were remnant presents from a past soon to be known. Answers to questions that proved their point in time and lyrics. They say the pen is mightier than the sword and some artists have lots of lyrics.
I was also in a position where tacitly I had to navigate with unnegotiable terms. I would get upset because everyone else seemed to be satisfied, but my needs were plenty and I demanded more. Hell-bent at getting even or in a fight.
Realistic Fiction
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