Let's Not
The one and only
Life was supposed to be easy. I was told there were ups and downs, but I never knew how far, down really was. It’s pretty far down. I mean, when you go through some things, you don’t think things could be so bad after. Until the absolute worst happens. But then again, maybe the absolute worst, is only the beginning.
My dad ran away from my family when I was twelve. I remember the exact moment it happened. I remember the time, date, what the house smelled like…I remember everything. It’s like a movie that plays on HD whenever I think about it. Which is often, really.
It was May 30th, 2006. It was 7:42 in the morning. The numbers on my digital clock displayed those numbers in a bright green. My window was cracked right above my bed. Birds were chirping loudly and a breeze was blowing. Downstairs I heard a crash. Louder than the one that woke me up. I ran out of my room, my bedroom door opening simultaneously with my older brother, Simon’s, door. We looked at each other, surprised. The yelling we heard was coming from the kitchen. It was loud. My mother’s screams were permanently recorded in my mind. Simon and I ran down the stairs. The same thought was running through my head. Over and over again.
What’s going on? My parents never fight.
When we reached our kitchen, the two of us gasped. My dad was standing by the door that leads to the driveway, two suitcases by his feet. I remember buying him those suitcases for Christmas a few years ago. He was shouting over my mother’s screams.
“You get out of my fucking house. Now!” She screamed. She reached for the empty, glass cookie jar that was on the counter, blindly chucking it at him. The tears on her face were clearly visible. My dad ducked from the jar, which fell to the tiled floor with a crash that practically broke my heart. I knew he wasn’t coming back after he walked through those doors. I silently pleaded with him, hoping that he wasn’t leaving.
“Mom?” Simon asked. His voice sounded strained. She didn’t hear him. She picked up a dirty plate that once lie in the sink and threw it towards my dad. I shut my eyes as I heard him groan.
“Leah! I’m leaving! Stop it!” He cried. I turned around, closing my eyes harder. I heard the sound of the front door open and close.
He was gone. Simon ran after him.
“Dad!” I remember him crying. Tears fought their way from my eyes as I heard the sound of my mom falling to the ground. Her sobs were burned into my memory. She never, ever sounded so pained in her life.
I locked myself in my room for two days after that. Simon and I skipped school. My mom didn’t care. She did the same.
My dad leaving was only the beginning. A month after he left, June 28th, 2006 my mom killed herself. The shot of the gun echoed throughout the house. It was 3:36 in the morning. It was so familiar when Simon and I ran out of our rooms at the same time. I knew nothing would ever be the same again.
We walked into her room. She was lying in her bed, the gun lying limply in her hand. I didn’t look at her face, only the gun. It was too gruesome. There was a note lying next to her. It read I’m sorry in sharpie. It was scribbled in her neat writing that reminded me so much of the days when she signed my permission slips to go on fieldtrips.
Every time I think of these moments in my life, I cry. I remember. I can’t forget. If I did, I would have nothing left of my past. I now live with my foster parents. My brother and I were separated four days after my mother’s death. He gave me a hug and told me to be good. I am good. Just for him.
My foster parents adopted a dog once I started living with them. They let me pick his name. I named him Simon. After my brother. Whenever I start to cry. And remember, I hug Simon.
It helps me remember only the good things.
My dad ran away from my family when I was twelve. I remember the exact moment it happened. I remember the time, date, what the house smelled like…I remember everything. It’s like a movie that plays on HD whenever I think about it. Which is often, really.
It was May 30th, 2006. It was 7:42 in the morning. The numbers on my digital clock displayed those numbers in a bright green. My window was cracked right above my bed. Birds were chirping loudly and a breeze was blowing. Downstairs I heard a crash. Louder than the one that woke me up. I ran out of my room, my bedroom door opening simultaneously with my older brother, Simon’s, door. We looked at each other, surprised. The yelling we heard was coming from the kitchen. It was loud. My mother’s screams were permanently recorded in my mind. Simon and I ran down the stairs. The same thought was running through my head. Over and over again.
What’s going on? My parents never fight.
When we reached our kitchen, the two of us gasped. My dad was standing by the door that leads to the driveway, two suitcases by his feet. I remember buying him those suitcases for Christmas a few years ago. He was shouting over my mother’s screams.
“You get out of my fucking house. Now!” She screamed. She reached for the empty, glass cookie jar that was on the counter, blindly chucking it at him. The tears on her face were clearly visible. My dad ducked from the jar, which fell to the tiled floor with a crash that practically broke my heart. I knew he wasn’t coming back after he walked through those doors. I silently pleaded with him, hoping that he wasn’t leaving.
“Mom?” Simon asked. His voice sounded strained. She didn’t hear him. She picked up a dirty plate that once lie in the sink and threw it towards my dad. I shut my eyes as I heard him groan.
“Leah! I’m leaving! Stop it!” He cried. I turned around, closing my eyes harder. I heard the sound of the front door open and close.
He was gone. Simon ran after him.
“Dad!” I remember him crying. Tears fought their way from my eyes as I heard the sound of my mom falling to the ground. Her sobs were burned into my memory. She never, ever sounded so pained in her life.
I locked myself in my room for two days after that. Simon and I skipped school. My mom didn’t care. She did the same.
My dad leaving was only the beginning. A month after he left, June 28th, 2006 my mom killed herself. The shot of the gun echoed throughout the house. It was 3:36 in the morning. It was so familiar when Simon and I ran out of our rooms at the same time. I knew nothing would ever be the same again.
We walked into her room. She was lying in her bed, the gun lying limply in her hand. I didn’t look at her face, only the gun. It was too gruesome. There was a note lying next to her. It read I’m sorry in sharpie. It was scribbled in her neat writing that reminded me so much of the days when she signed my permission slips to go on fieldtrips.
Every time I think of these moments in my life, I cry. I remember. I can’t forget. If I did, I would have nothing left of my past. I now live with my foster parents. My brother and I were separated four days after my mother’s death. He gave me a hug and told me to be good. I am good. Just for him.
My foster parents adopted a dog once I started living with them. They let me pick his name. I named him Simon. After my brother. Whenever I start to cry. And remember, I hug Simon.
It helps me remember only the good things.
♠ ♠ ♠
726 words.comment?(: