If We Can't Break The Silence, How Can We Survive?

Liz and Vic were in the kitchen gossiping about the rumors going around and just discussing pointless shit. I was sitting in the dining room doing the project on the kitchen table. Vic was looking at me do the assignment and started talking to Liz about it.

“I can’t believe Helen Keller here is working with Gerard! Fucking bitch should've paired him up with me.” Liz laughed at what she said.

“So when do you think we’re going to fuck?”

“Who?”

“Me and Gerard, who else,” Vic replied annoyed.

“Well…I don’t know. I mean he’s had plenty of chances and he's turned them all down. I don’t think he even wants to have sex,” Liz said as she tried to be reasonable.

“Well that’s because he’s waiting for me honey,” Vic said with a sure smile.

Liz just laughed and agreed.

“Well, I’m gonna go now. Don’t forget that Paul is picking us up around eleven. And if you’re not allowed to go, then you’re sneaking out okay? And don’t forget to bring the stuff. Bye hun!”

Vic left at that and I watched her walk out of the house. As soon as the front door closed, Liz started talking shit about her.

“What a dumb cunt,” she stated to no one but herself. She walked towards the fridge and took out some stuff to make something to eat.

"You know Frank, I can't fucking stand Vic at all."

Liz always did this. She'd have "converstions" with me when she thought out loud. I guess this was her way of getting things off her chest. As much as I didn't like her or care about anything she ever said, it was kind of nice to not be completely ignored.

She went off about how she was a slut and a bitch, the same old shit she always said about her. She really didn't like her at all, but yet she continued to be friends with her. She was such a two face.

When she was done making her food, she went upstairs and I was left alone in peace, finally.

I was now done with my assignment and I headed upstairs to take a shower.

When I got out, I put on my boxers and tucked myself in bed. I just laid there staring at the ceiling, thinking back at my old life.

I remember how my dad would always tell me stories about my mother. About their relationship and how they first met. He loved her dearly. You could just see it in his eyes every time he looked at a photograph or mentioned her. He didn’t dwell on her death though. He learned to cope with it, and decided to see it in a beautiful way. He knew she was in a better place, up in heaven, and that she had died for a reason. He knew we had to let her go because she belonged in a place with God.

I had a picture of me and her on the nightstand to the left of my bed. I always slept facing that side so the picture was the last thing I looked at before falling asleep. She was so beautiful in the photograph, and I’m sure she was in person too. I looked just like her, the eyes and the hair. Even the smile. We looked so happy. It was taken in the backyard of the house we used to live in. My mom had planted a big rosebush and there were about three huge apple trees in the yard. In the back of the photo, my age and the date was written. I was two years old and my mom was twenty. My mom had had me at such a young age. In the picture we were standing in front of the rosebush with a rose in my hand. My mom was kneeling down so she was up to my height level while her arms were around my tiny body. We were looking at each other, our foreheads touching. I was laughing while she had a huge smile on her face, showing all her teeth.

On the day she died, I had painted a picture at home while she was at work. It was the first time I had ever painted and I couldn’t wait to show her. It was a painting of the rose bushes outside and us standing by them. Kind of like the photo I had on my stand, except my dad was in this one. It was around five in the afternoon when it started raining severely. Eventually, it started lightening and thundering. I hid under the blankets next to my dad because I was scared of how loud the thunder was. My dad was comforting me, telling me not to be scared because it was just a thing that happened every time it rained really hard. He convinced me that it wasn’t the end of the world.

My mom always came home around seven thirty, but that day she was late. I kept on asking my dad, “Where’s mommy? When’s mommy coming home? Is she okay?”

All my dad said was, “Don’t worry Junior, mommy will be home soon.”

I waited for a few more hours and she never came. I had heard a knock and instantly jumped off the couch, running to the door. My dad had made it to the door before I did and opened it. It wasn’t my mom. It was two police men. I looked at them and then over to my dad with confused eyes. They were telling my dad something that I couldn’t understand, so I waited for them to leave so that my dad could explain it to me afterwards.

The cops left a moment later and my dad just stood there, not blinking as he stared at the door. His eyes were watery and soon, silent tears were flowing down his cheeks. I was so confused. I had never seen my dad cry before and I wondered why he was crying right then.

After my dad had calmed down a little bit, he explained everything to me. Well, he tried his best to. I was three years old and no one had ever told me about death, so I had no idea what had happened to mom. He explained it the best way he could and told me not to worry ‘cause mom was safe wherever she was. I cried at the fact that I was never going to see her again, but I tried to understand that this was a good thing like my dad said it was.

A few years later when I was old enough to understand, my dad explained everything to me again. I was thirteen years old. He said how on her way home from work, the roads on the highway were slippery and she was trying to focus. She also couldn’t see through the windows because the rain was blocking her view. As she was about to make a turn, a truck suddenly appeared and slammed into her side. She died on impact.

My dad even told to me what I was doing that day; about the painting. I still have that painting too. My dad kept it on the fridge, and when he died, I took it with me.

As I was growing up, my dad and I did everything together. We went traveling, camping, hiking, fishing, and just, everywhere. My dad always tried to make my life as easy as possible. And he did. I was so happy with him. He was my everything. My hero, my inspiration. My world. I looked up to him so much, I didn’t know if I could ever make it without him.

I think the best thing though that we had did together was learn how to play the guitar. I remember the day he picked up his guitar and started playing him and mom’s song. It was the song that had played on the day they met. They weren’t even a couple then, but they were kind of on a blind/double date with Liz’s parents. They immediately had a connection, and at the moment he asked her to be his girlfriend, their song came on.

I never knew what happened to his guitar though. It sort of just vanished. I hadn’t played since I was about fourteen or fifteen.

A few months ago in June, my dad and I went out to eat for his birthday. He had parked his car on the other side of the street that was in a towing zone. He hadn’t known that we weren’t supposed to park there so when he saw the tow truck about to take his car, he told me to wait there and that he would be back shortly. I didn’t want to wait though. As soon as he walked out of the restaurant, I got up from my seat and headed out the door as well.

My dad forgot to look both ways before crossing, and he also didn’t hear the car honking at him. Before I could even put my foot on the pavement, the car hit him.

I couldn’t even process what had happened. I just stood there, my mouth and eyes wide open. I hadn’t even moved until the ambulance came.

I ran over to my dad who was already dead. I was having a panic attack and the paramedics tried to calm me down. They took both of us to he hospital.

I lived in our house for a few days before they took me into the orphanage. I stayed there for quite some time, and now, I ended up here.

I started crying silently as I remembered all this. I laid there for an hour, not being able to sleep at all. I got up from my bed and headed over to the drawers, taking out the vase that held my dad’s ashes. My dad didn’t want a funeral. He wanted to be cremated so that whenever he died, his ashes were spread all over my mom’s grave. I hadn’t gone to do it yet though. I was too scared to leave my dad. I wanted him here with me because this was the only thing I had left of him. I didn’t have any pictures of him yet because everything was still at our house and I had been meaning to go back for some stuff, but I hadn’t had the time or ride to go.

I placed the vase next to the picture of my mother and felt like I was finally able to sleep. I wasn’t alone tonight.