well, here goes nothing.
Cold Turkey
The turkey was almost as cold as their stares, well, Mom’s anyways. Dad was reading the paper at the table. Sports section, business, it never matter what letters or numbers were in the corner of the page, he read the Raleigh Chronicle at the table every night. The more conservative type of paper, but the Chronicle was his style, matching him perfectly and appropriately, just like the paper’s dull stories and tragically unappealing comics. He was not strong as other dads, leaving mom to be the punishing type; but even she was silent after what I did. The table basked in this silence; I knew they found out. I was caught for sure this time. Only little Molly spoke, if you can call her aimless babbling speaking at all.
“I love spinkles. (Sprinkles),” Molly said.
I wish I could sit in her high chair, an eagle’s nest above the silent hatred of the table. The blue-trayed Kid Cuisine sitting on top of the cheap plastic plateau was usually the center of attention at dinner. If only her babbling could somehow setback the anticipation, how will my mother deal with this.
My father closed the page of the paper, to pathetic to speak; he softly laid the paper down at the table. He occasionally switched glances from the bold red letters of cheap car dealership ads on the back of the paper, to his half-eaten cold turkey and peas. This sequence was broken by my mother who said,
“Son, we got a call from the school today”
“Aww! Eric’s in troubou (trouble).” Molly interrupted.
Father stood up, and took little Molly with a strangely loving grasp. I could still hear his footsteps slowly making their way up the staircase as I pondered how sensitive he was in situations like this. He was not even man enough to look at me.
“Drugs? Son….really?” My mom said.
“Mom, look, I am sorry. Okay!” I said.
“No, no your not sorry. You’ll never know what sorry feels like!” She said.
Her hands hit the table, sending silverware onto the floor. She bent over and picked up the spoon. Staring into her own reflection, she gasped, and her eyes welled up with tears.
“ I remember, son, so well what sorry looks like. Sorry looked so similar to this. I still remember melting heroin in a spoon like this.
Son, I know you were just caught with marijuana this time, but it leads to other things, intense…uncontrollable things. Son, I-I would know, I have done stronger things before, melting and injecting like clockwork. The images of the fire and not being able to stop, not being able to put it out, those images NEVER LEFT. The SCARS on my veins… never left.” She said.
She sat in her chair defenseless, her hands crossed, covering where her upper and lower arm met. Rising from my seat I shot towards my mother, holding her tight in my arms. She wept into my shoulder, stammering apologies, now grasping hard onto my back. Her tears hurt, and, in-between sobs, she managed to lift her head and meet my eyes.
“Son, I did things, just to loosen my stress, for my needs. After it happened… everyone left. My friends, my family. All gone, the only thing left were my scars.”
“Mom, after what happened?” I said.
“I needed a hit so bad, and…I was willing to do anything. Your father was the only friend who took me in after I got pregnant with you. We moved here together, leaving family, our home and that dealer…never looking back.” She said.
I tried to stand, but my body gave up. My knees shook, and soon after hit the floor, now my mom was holding me. Holding onto her embrace, my hands on her back were ready top throw cold turkey and Kid Cuisine onto the bleak kitchen wallpaper.
Father came down the stairs, held my mom and I. Now I knew why every Christmas we never had family over, why I never knew how my parents met. I realized that my Dad was the strongest man I had ever met.
The turkey was almost as cold as their stares, well, Mom’s anyways. Dad was reading the paper at the table. Sports section, business, it never matter what letters or numbers were in the corner of the page, he read the Raleigh Chronicle at the table every night. The more conservative type of paper, but the Chronicle was his style, matching him perfectly and appropriately, just like the paper’s dull stories and tragically unappealing comics. He was not strong as other dads, leaving mom to be the punishing type; but even she was silent after what I did. The table basked in this silence; I knew they found out. I was caught for sure this time. Only little Molly spoke, if you can call her aimless babbling speaking at all.
“I love spinkles. (Sprinkles),” Molly said.
I wish I could sit in her high chair, an eagle’s nest above the silent hatred of the table. The blue-trayed Kid Cuisine sitting on top of the cheap plastic plateau was usually the center of attention at dinner. If only her babbling could somehow setback the anticipation, how will my mother deal with this.
My father closed the page of the paper, to pathetic to speak; he softly laid the paper down at the table. He occasionally switched glances from the bold red letters of cheap car dealership ads on the back of the paper, to his half-eaten cold turkey and peas. This sequence was broken by my mother who said,
“Son, we got a call from the school today”
“Aww! Eric’s in troubou (trouble).” Molly interrupted.
Father stood up, and took little Molly with a strangely loving grasp. I could still hear his footsteps slowly making their way up the staircase as I pondered how sensitive he was in situations like this. He was not even man enough to look at me.
“Drugs? Son….really?” My mom said.
“Mom, look, I am sorry. Okay!” I said.
“No, no your not sorry. You’ll never know what sorry feels like!” She said.
Her hands hit the table, sending silverware onto the floor. She bent over and picked up the spoon. Staring into her own reflection, she gasped, and her eyes welled up with tears.
“ I remember, son, so well what sorry looks like. Sorry looked so similar to this. I still remember melting heroin in a spoon like this.
Son, I know you were just caught with marijuana this time, but it leads to other things, intense…uncontrollable things. Son, I-I would know, I have done stronger things before, melting and injecting like clockwork. The images of the fire and not being able to stop, not being able to put it out, those images NEVER LEFT. The SCARS on my veins… never left.” She said.
She sat in her chair defenseless, her hands crossed, covering where her upper and lower arm met. Rising from my seat I shot towards my mother, holding her tight in my arms. She wept into my shoulder, stammering apologies, now grasping hard onto my back. Her tears hurt, and, in-between sobs, she managed to lift her head and meet my eyes.
“Son, I did things, just to loosen my stress, for my needs. After it happened… everyone left. My friends, my family. All gone, the only thing left were my scars.”
“Mom, after what happened?” I said.
“I needed a hit so bad, and…I was willing to do anything. Your father was the only friend who took me in after I got pregnant with you. We moved here together, leaving family, our home and that dealer…never looking back.” She said.
I tried to stand, but my body gave up. My knees shook, and soon after hit the floor, now my mom was holding me. Holding onto her embrace, my hands on her back were ready top throw cold turkey and Kid Cuisine onto the bleak kitchen wallpaper.
Father came down the stairs, held my mom and I. Now I knew why every Christmas we never had family over, why I never knew how my parents met. I realized that my Dad was the strongest man I had ever met.
Ok, a little sad. Well, I like this one, but I did not take enough time on it, I could try to make the dialogue better. Hmmm, what do you guys think? I dunno why, I am just in a sad mood. Ugh, I just spent a lot of my tiem writing it and still, nothing. No solve to my headache, writer's block and problems. Great.
4 comments:
I actually loved it! especially how it tied in together at the end about how the dad was the strongest man the guy had ever met when before he had never seen him as such. You're talented, you are.
I hope you get out of your sad mood though, even if it brings out good writings!
omg amanda, i dont know how i can express this enough...if a person writes something sad, it doesn't always mean the author is sad. Dear goodness.
but anyway, the buildup was good and intro rocked butt, you set the mood very well, but i think you lost it near the end. I did like how the views of the dad changed at the end. Um, the mom is very melodramatic, i think if you calm that down a bit it would help.
oh and theres no such thing as writers block, its a lame excuse for you not being on your 'A' game. pfffttt. hehe, your always writing gloriously. So continue!
Yeah, I took that into consideration Krysteah, haha, but he wrote,
"My mind is in disarray, and I have a bit of a headache."
so I figured he was still a bit on the sad side. I mean I'm sad when I have a headache. :P
and this part - "I dunno why, I am just in a sad mood."
lol.
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