literature

Memories

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Literature Text

I remember looking up, watching the clouds move across the night sky. The rain was welling up inside them, ready to explode from within its soft gray prisons. The year is 1994, and I am eight years old. I look to my mother and father, my small head moving back and forth to gaze at them. They argue over something I can’t begin to understand or interpret. My mother’s brown eyes are shedding streams of tears, the once beautiful and loving orbs now growing red out of a mixture of rage and pain. My father’s cold blue eyes do not shed a single tear, as he looks to me and her one last time. I am holding a recently acquired X-Men toy, specifically one of the evil mutant-harvesting robots called the Sentinels. How ironic that such a mighty mechanical being is but a mere toy in my hand, in the real world. My father’s eyes close as he turns away from my mother and me, and as if on cue the rain begins to fall. I watch my father walk away, get into a vehicle with some people I have never known and ride off. My small hand grabs my mother’s, gripping it lovingly as I look up to her.

“Mommy,” I begin. “Where’s Daddy going?” I cannot understand why or where he is going, or what has occurred. “Did I make Daddy go away?” As the rain pours down, my mother pulls me to her and hugs me tight. I smell the mixture of her perfume and the rain, and it smells wonderful. I respond in kind by hugging my mother, my smaller arms just barely wrapping around her adult frame. “It’ll be okay baby…It’s gonna be okay.” She doesn’t answer my question the way I wanted as I find myself in her warm embrace, not noticing I had dropped my Sentinel toy. As the rain pours down, I hear the raindrops lightly pecking against its frame as plastic battles water.

Fast forward. Its 1999 and my parents are fighting again. Despite any false hope of reconciliation, they still find themselves screaming hate and anger at each other, as if that's going to help. One pisses the other off, they fight, they argue, they yell. All the time, same old crap, day in, day out. You could set your watch to it. Even at 13 years old, I grow more and more tired of this. They don't seem to love each other. It’s like someone is holding the plug on their marriage, but is too spineless to pull it. Sometimes I wish I could just end this whole situation, but it’s not my place. I love them, but I can't do what they won't do. My head throbs and aches from their yelling and arguing. I can't make out words, just mindless yelling, making me leap from my seat, unable to take it anymore. My attempt at escape only leads to more suffering as I stand in the yard, hoping for some privacy. My parents decide to follow my outside ultimately denying me of my escape. I don’t bother to turn around and face them; staring up at the sky which contradicts the situation at hand. While my parents quarrel the clouds float along peacefully and temporarily they share that piece with me.

My father’s hand clamps around my arm and drags me. My shoes skid across the gravel driveway as I try to fight, my hand grasping my mother’s. They scream at each other as she begs my father to let me go and asks me to get out of the truck. My father cranks his cherry red ’94 Chevrolet and shifts into reverse. My tears finally decide to flow as I watch my mother slowly moving away from me and then leaving my sight as my father drives off. “Everything’s going to be alright son,” my father says “Your mother and I just need a moment apart from one another, and you need to be with me…” I don't even bother responding to him. The last few minutes of my mother begging and screaming for me to come back play over and over in my head as if my conscience believes the whole thing to be my fault. “Hey, don’t cry,” my father pats me on the shoulder. “You’ve got no reason to cry, so suck it up. We’ll go back after Mom’s cooled down.” I remember how much he hates it when I cry, so I suck it up and wipe away my tears and force myself to stop being emotional. Men don’t cry, they flex their chest muscles and laugh at emotions.  I am not surprised how I can’t live up to that rule of man, because I am always emotional and have too big of a heart for my own good. Every effort I put forth to try and defend my heart, I still take another blow. As my father drives us to where only he knows, I ponder why I should even bother. The scenery flies by in a haze as my father drives on, yet all I can hear are my mother’s sobs and screams.

Now the year is 2009, and once again my parents are at each other’s throats. I am holding my sister Natalie close. She is twelve years old, crying and holding onto me tight. I don’t let her go as I try my best to comfort her. My parents throw cuss words like grenades, the hatred-filled shouts rising in volume. Natalie shivers and whimpers and I coo and hold her close. “It’s alright Natalie…Everything’s going to be alright, I promise.” I do my best to keep her calm, ignoring the barrage of noise from cabinets slamming to more hateful language. I’ve had years to build up endurance for this, but Natalie still has far to go. Love has a price, and it seems happiness is the price for my family. “Why are they fighting Ben? Did I do something wrong? What’s going on?” Natalie barrages me with question after question, and I think back to when I asked my Mom similar questions.

I cannot begin to answer her. I wish I could. Conflict is human nature, as I have discovered over the years. There is no such thing as a perfect marriage or family; there are always problems that occur. I hold no ill feelings towards my parents as they fight each other, because it is human nature to fight. I kiss Natalie’s forehead and hug her tighter as we sit in my room, the door shut like a small shield against the ongoing war in the living room. Natalie starts to calm down in sync with our parents as their fighting seems to soften. The tears of my younger sister drip against my shoulder, running along me like raindrops as I hold her in a protective embrace. My mind reflects on the rain years ago and how it merely ran along the plastic Sentinel toy like it did my own body. I have become the Sentinel, a cold machine.
This is my last manuscript I did for my Creative Nonfiction class I have been taking. For those of you that don't know what Creative Nonfiction is, it's writing Nonfiction using fictional devices like dialogue. This was hailed as my best piece in the class and everybody liked it. I had some editing help by :icondr-blindsy: and I thank her kindly for that.

It's prose and writing, so I don't expect much response or viewing of it since this is DeviantArt. Still, I felt like posting it, so why not.
© 2009 - 2024 BenSoulstone
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Chibi-Joey's avatar
So sad, but beautifully written!:happycry: