I did that because

[CaliforniaNow]

Fill in the blanks:  the first time I _____________________, it was because _________________.

[officerripley]

Wow wow wow, that's great writing, TeeBubba!  Kinda reminds me of what Hubby's told me about his dad.  (And my sis-in-law & her hubby live in Dickson!)  Thanks for posting this; must be so cool to have a talent like that! :-)

[TeeBubbaDee]

Thanks officer!! I really don't know how or why this story came out of me. OK I don't know how, but the why was because I was alone at the time (wife was on a six week assignment) I had never written anything other a book report in high school, but stumbled on to a VERY nice member of the original TBD. He was the one that encouraged me to post some pretty inoculous stuff (poems) that I had for some reason come up with.  That led to some serious things about my child hood, and the next thing I knew, I was writing a short story. 

OK, I put this out many years ago to some very selective friends. Guess I'll just throw it out and see what happens. This was my first "serious" piece that I wrote for my TBD friends. The beginning, and the end, about the little boy are fictional. The rest is just me. I'm pretty much laying my soul open to anyone that wants to look. Hang on, cause it's gonna be a bumpy ride. Here goes...

This one is called Wounds, Scars, and Scabs

I try to not to poke at the wounds of my childhood, and try as hard as possible, not pick at the scabs that have formed over the scars. But sometimes, someone else rips those scabs open for me.

It happened today as I walked through the neighborhood park.

There was this little boy, couldn’t  be more than five or six. I had come along too late to know what the little guy had done. He was cowering before his Daddy, who was obviously drunk. Spit was flying as he screamed at his son, "You little shit!! Didn’t I tell you to never do that again?"

Well the scabs got ripped off and the wounds began to bleed. And there was my own child hood all over. But why should I have wounds and scars in the first place?

Maybe because I never once remember being held or cuddled. No, that shouldn’t  leave a scar, it’s probably just my bad memory.

I doubt it was because I had moved 5 times by the time I was 5, living in a shack. Three rooms, using two, cause the roof was on the floor of the third. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, didn’t I say we had a roof over two rooms.

It couldn’t be because I was standing between my parents trying to push them apart as they fought. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, they were hitting each other, not me.

Might it be the divorce from the crazy man that fathered me. Well only crazy if you consider getting drunk, taking off a boot and knocking out every light bulb in the place. Or kicking my pregnant Mother in the stomach so that my sister had to have her guts put back in as soon as she was born. No that shouldn’t leave a scar, we were good to be rid of him.

I can’t imagine it was the stress of eight more moves between 5 and 11. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, lots of kids have stress.

Inconceivable it was from the baby sitters sister, who happened to be a total stranger, standing over me with a belt and saying, "You will tie those shoes." No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, all little kids have to learn to tie their own shoes.

Can it be from the isolation brought on by going to five different grade schools. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, I just have a difficult time making friends.

It’s not likely it was my mom’s second marriage that lasted six months. No, that shouldn’t leave a scar. 6 months isn’t  long enough to leave a scar.

Probably not an innocent question when I was 8, and my Mothers response was "If I thought you would grow up to be like your Father, I would just go ahead and kill you now!" No, that shouldn’t leave a scar, we all know he was a bastard.

It could not possibly be the third marriage, when I was 11. Hell, I was finally like everyone else, I had a guy I could call Dad. Of course then I didn’t  know how sick he was, touching my sister, and my little brother too. No, that shouldn’t  leave a scar, he never touched me, only asked to look at my penis.

Presumably it’s not my uncaring Mother that raised an emotional cripple. No that shouldn’t leave a scar, it’s impossible to scar someone without emotions isn’t it?

It has to be true, you can’t scar someone with no emotions. Hadn’t that been the lesson of my entire life. With this thought in mind, I pulled the collar on my coat up as far as I could, and just walked away. But as I walked away, I could still hear that little boy crying, and I felt another scab forming on my heart.

]

Wounds and scars, scars and scabs, how did I get so many?

 

 

 

 

[officerripley]

Again:  WOW, so good.  painful but good good good, you really got a talent for this, Tee.

[TeeBubbaDee]

Thanks, but I really don't have a "talent". I wrote several pieces (the 2 above are the best) years ago and then kinda ran out of ideas. Haven't written anything since. This one is personal too. A group of us had a "Flash Fiction" challenge. The idea was to write a piece of fiction in 250 words or less. I was clueless about a fiction theme, so did what I had always done, and write something that my experiences. I cheated and instead of writing flash fiction, I wrote flash reality. R.I.P Dad.

Dad’s Last Laugh

 

Two phrases had been stuck in my head. Please don’t let him be in pain, please don’t let him be afraid. I had never watched someone die before. 

He was my wife’s Father, but I called him Dad too. An intestinal blockage had brought him to the hospital, but after three good years, the cancer was back. I was going to miss cooking dinner for him. I was going to miss rubbing the top of his balding head. Miss the smile on his face when he played with the dog. 

We stood around that bed, waiting, watching him die. I watched Dad, watched my wife. She had seen others die in this bed. She is a critical care nurse, and this is her unit. I wondered what would go through her mind the next time she walked into this room, watched someone else die in this bed? 

There had been five of us watching. My wife was at he head of the bed holding his hand. Our daughter stood next to her,. His son and daughter in law, were at the foot of the bed. I was at the top on the other side across from my wife. 

He had been unresponsive for several hours. But then his eyes opened, then focused. He smiled as he saw the people he loved. He looked at each of us. He started with my wife, then our daughter, his son and his wife. When he finally, he got to me, his smile turned into a chuckle, then a laugh, and he slipped away.