The Illusion of Separation
chapter one.
My father was not an understanding person.
It might have been because he was born that way. It might have been that he was raised like that. After all, he was brought up in a Southern household where his family taught him that males were the dominant people in the household and that women needed to do things like stay home and clean the house and cook. They weren't really on the same plane as men and so he had the right to order them around when they were younger and less important than him, especially when they were in his family. If they were girls or women outside the family, he'd put on the old Southern charm, but my mom and I weren't as lucky. That's why she left. Mom was from New Jersey, where if a boy acted anything less than respectful to you, you either kicked their ass or got someone to do it for you. He expected her to do what he said because she was his wife, and she didn't like that at all. She didn't realize it came as part of the deal of marrying him.
Anyway, what my dad said was pretty much gospel around our house, and I better not question it or I was going to get into a shitload of trouble. That's probably what made me grow up quiet and reserved, just like the kind of woman Dad liked. He was good as long as no one questioned his rules or his way of life, and I had to accept it and go along with it because, let's face it, he was my dad. He had custody of me and my mother was off in New York somewhere "finding herself" as she called it. When she told me she was leaving and I asked to come with her, she told me I couldn't because I would be too much of a burden. I'm sure she didn't mean it as horribly as she said it, since my mother often said things without thinking about how they affected other people, but it hurt all the same. It's not a fun thing to not be wanted.
I never went against what my dad said because I was afraid, and that was one of my flaws. It didn't just happen with my dad. I was afraid to question anything that anyone said. Luckily I wasn't one of the kids that was picked on in highschool, because I have a feeling I'd end up bursting into tears and hiding in the bathroom the rest of the day. Mostly I kept to myself and that gave the jerks in my class no reason to pick on me, since they didn't know hardly anything about me.
No, the person they tended to pick on was a boy that started highschool at the same time I did. He wasn't an emo kid with bangs in his face and piercings all over and black clothes. Well, he did have bangs in his face and he had a piercing on the right side of his lip, but he had blond hair and he was...well, you couldn't really put him into a category. I'd like to call him one of those artsy types, but even though I found out later that he was a musician he didn't look like the typical kind of artistic kid. He just looked like one you'd pick off the street, hanging out by the movie theater, laughing with a group of friends. He wasn't really anything special, but he wasn't plain, either, and since he confused people, they'd focus their efforts on him. It started with pushing him around in the hallways, and then when they found out he made music they'd pick on that.
It was about three years of that, and I wasn't his hero. I didn't swoop in and magically shove everyone aside and help him off of the ground. The whole afraid-to-do-anything-but-stand-there thing prevented that. I sat back and watched and wished I could do something, but he didn't cower and try to hide from them. They picked on him, he just looked at them and let them do what they wanted. They shoved him, he shrugged and kept walking. They swiped his books off of the table, he just went and got them and didn't even say anything about it. They insulted him around his desk and he just smiled at them. He confused me, and I'm sure he confused a lot of other people, too.
He believed in peace and love as his religion. He went barefoot everywhere. He had so many tattoos that he sometimes admitted even he couldn't keep track of them all.
And his name was Christofer Drew.
It might have been because he was born that way. It might have been that he was raised like that. After all, he was brought up in a Southern household where his family taught him that males were the dominant people in the household and that women needed to do things like stay home and clean the house and cook. They weren't really on the same plane as men and so he had the right to order them around when they were younger and less important than him, especially when they were in his family. If they were girls or women outside the family, he'd put on the old Southern charm, but my mom and I weren't as lucky. That's why she left. Mom was from New Jersey, where if a boy acted anything less than respectful to you, you either kicked their ass or got someone to do it for you. He expected her to do what he said because she was his wife, and she didn't like that at all. She didn't realize it came as part of the deal of marrying him.
Anyway, what my dad said was pretty much gospel around our house, and I better not question it or I was going to get into a shitload of trouble. That's probably what made me grow up quiet and reserved, just like the kind of woman Dad liked. He was good as long as no one questioned his rules or his way of life, and I had to accept it and go along with it because, let's face it, he was my dad. He had custody of me and my mother was off in New York somewhere "finding herself" as she called it. When she told me she was leaving and I asked to come with her, she told me I couldn't because I would be too much of a burden. I'm sure she didn't mean it as horribly as she said it, since my mother often said things without thinking about how they affected other people, but it hurt all the same. It's not a fun thing to not be wanted.
I never went against what my dad said because I was afraid, and that was one of my flaws. It didn't just happen with my dad. I was afraid to question anything that anyone said. Luckily I wasn't one of the kids that was picked on in highschool, because I have a feeling I'd end up bursting into tears and hiding in the bathroom the rest of the day. Mostly I kept to myself and that gave the jerks in my class no reason to pick on me, since they didn't know hardly anything about me.
No, the person they tended to pick on was a boy that started highschool at the same time I did. He wasn't an emo kid with bangs in his face and piercings all over and black clothes. Well, he did have bangs in his face and he had a piercing on the right side of his lip, but he had blond hair and he was...well, you couldn't really put him into a category. I'd like to call him one of those artsy types, but even though I found out later that he was a musician he didn't look like the typical kind of artistic kid. He just looked like one you'd pick off the street, hanging out by the movie theater, laughing with a group of friends. He wasn't really anything special, but he wasn't plain, either, and since he confused people, they'd focus their efforts on him. It started with pushing him around in the hallways, and then when they found out he made music they'd pick on that.
It was about three years of that, and I wasn't his hero. I didn't swoop in and magically shove everyone aside and help him off of the ground. The whole afraid-to-do-anything-but-stand-there thing prevented that. I sat back and watched and wished I could do something, but he didn't cower and try to hide from them. They picked on him, he just looked at them and let them do what they wanted. They shoved him, he shrugged and kept walking. They swiped his books off of the table, he just went and got them and didn't even say anything about it. They insulted him around his desk and he just smiled at them. He confused me, and I'm sure he confused a lot of other people, too.
He believed in peace and love as his religion. He went barefoot everywhere. He had so many tattoos that he sometimes admitted even he couldn't keep track of them all.
And his name was Christofer Drew.
♠ ♠ ♠
Reeeeally weak first chapter. But I didn't want to start it off between them because I'll be writing from the time they're already together and then Chris leaves and dies and whatever, and then I'll be switching time periods. Much easier that way. I don't want to be like writing the entire story from start to finish and have him die at the end. -.-;By the way, this isn't supposed to offend any Southern people. o.o; I've lived here in the South for two years and I've lived with families where the wife is like this shy, intimidated person who doesn't do anything as their husband stands out at the garage and screams at my mom for no good reason just because he's mad that--
...*is shot*
Yeah.
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