eleven

I was writing in my notebook and talking to Dad when Mom came into the room. She told me that she called a mental hospital about how I was acting and they both agreed that it would be best for me to be institutionalized. Mom informed me that she would be taking me to the hospital in a couple of hours and told me that I had better start packing my bags. She was calm when she gave me this news, but I could tell how deeply hurt she was by her decision. 


I didn't know what to say. I turned to Dad to hear what he had to say, but found nothing but an empty chair sitting next to me. I looked back at Mom and nodded my head. My eyes began to burn as I got up to pack up my things. I closed my door, fell on my bed, and began to cry. 


"It's okay Lucy," comforted Dad. I jumped up. 

"No it's not, Dad! Nothing is okay! Because of you, I've gone insane! Because of you, Mom is sending away! Because of you, everything has gone to shit!" I screamed through the tears. Didn't I know that Dad was dead? Why was I still trying to talk to him? Nothing made sense anymore. 

I walked to the closet and began to rip the shirts off of their hangers. I threw my shoes against the walls, smudging them with little black rubber marks. I didn't care. This wasn't my room anymore. From the closet, I crawled to my desk and found my notebook, the same one where it first became evident that I had gone insane, and ripped every page to shreds. If Mom wanted insane, she got it. I fell into a violent tantrum - I screamed and slammed my fists on to the floor, I kicked my clothes and threw my alarm clock at the jammed window, causing it to crack, but not shatter. 


Outside, Mom sat in Dad's plush desk chair, crying. As she cried, my father stood behind her, rubbing her back and whispering in her ear.

ten

I feel like I’m reliving my past through flashbacks and blackouts. The memories are so vivid, but I can’t convince myself that they’re not real. Why would I? Everyday, with every memory, I get to relive my happiest memories; memories of my dad.


Still, I know that the memories will not last. I wish they did, but they don’t. Stepping back into reality is the hardest part; each time it feels like my dad is being ripped away from me again. As if once wasn’t enough, my brain has somehow managed to put the worst day of my life on repeat. It’s torture. And despite it all, I still want to close my eyes and magically go back into the illusion. 

Unfortunately, that’s not how real life works; the world won’t let you just live in the utopic and happy universe. No, instead, you’re forced to live in reality. And in reality, I’m not happy. 

I’m not the only one dealing with the consequences my flashbacks and blackouts; Mom’s beginning to be very concerned. She sees the way that I'm acting now and worries that I may be going off the deep end. The sad thing is, I think she may be right. Mom keeps threatening to send me to an institution, but I know she never would. She’s not strong enough to handle having both her husband and her daughter taken away from her. So I usually just ignore her threats and continue to give into the memories.


I believe that getting to see my dad for 7 minutes a day vastly outweighs the pain that follows. Instead of forcing the memories to stop, I’ve learned how to lessen the blow. I've started to use writing as my coping mechanism again. In my attempt to cling onto the memories, I write down every detail them that I can remember. It elongates the sensation. Not only that, but I feel as if my dad’s presence is with me as I write. It feels like he’s here, standing over me, telling me what to write.  


Needless to say, Mom's idea of institutionalization seems more and more likely when what she sees when she walks into my room is my writing gibberish and talking to my notebook.

nine

I was nine when we went on our first family vacation. My parents had finally saved enough money to rent a small cabin on a nearby lake. I wanted to go to the beach, but Dad assured me that the woods would be much more fun. I didn’t believe him, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings by showing my disappointment.

We left for the cabin right after school on Friday and arrived just before dusk, the best time of day, according to my father. It was too late to explore the woods, so we set up camp. Mom unpacked the food and duffel bags, while Dad tried to teach me how to build a fire. As we sat around the campfire roasting marshmallows, my parents told me the story of how they met.

My parents met at summer camp when they were both eight years old. Although they lived on opposite sides of the state, they kept in touch. They would send each other postcards and packages filled with random candies and toys. Eventually, they grew too old for summer camp, and they no longer saw each other every year. It wasn’t until seven years later, when my dad called my mom to tell her that he was staying in a neighboring town, that anything happened. They rekindled their love and three weeks later, they were married in a courthouse.

At nine years old, I thought that this story was the most amazing thing ever. It was as if the story of how they met was scripted by Disney or something. This was the first time that I ever realized just how much my parents loved each other.

For whatever reason, the memory of this weekend getaway is the only thing that calms me down when I start to slip into a depressive mourning state. I think it’s because, as cheesy as it sounds, I’m reminded of the love that our family used to share. Now that it’s just my Mom and I, I never feel any real happiness or love. Sure, I have moments, but Dad was who kept the flame alive.

“Lucy?” whispered a voice, “I really hate to do this to you, and I know I’m not your boss, but you really need to get back to work. You’ve been staring at that same wall for the past 15 minutes and I really need your help.”

Fantastic, now it's happening at work too. I feel like these black out moments are never going to stop. Maybe mom was right to schedule an evaluation for me. I mean, this can’t be normal, right? I don’t think that I can handle any more of this roller coaster of emotions.

Luckily, Spring was the one who caught me. I know she won’t report me to our boss; she’s kind of weird, and a little depressed herself, so I think that she understands what I’m going through.

eight

After the mugging, I ran straight home, skipping the visit to the police station. When Mom came home at 9:00, she found me curled up in a ball on the sofa. She had to call my name about seven times before I realized that she had come home.


Through the tears and fits of hyperventilation, I told her what happened. She was furious, angrier than I had ever seen her before. She insisted that we go to the station immediately, but I begged her not to. I cried like a baby, screaming about how much I hated the police, how much I feared them. In my mind, it was the police's fault for the mugging, not the muggers themselves.


Mom wouldn’t let me get away with not talking to the police at all, but quickly abandoned the idea of talking to them that night. She called the station and scheduled a meeting for me to talk to them in three days time at 5 pm. Apparently they were too busy to schedule me in any sooner.


Now it’s the afternoon after the mugging, and all I’ve done is stare at a blank wall. I spent the entire night battling with my mind, straining not to let the memories flood my brain. I lost. Every thought would send me spiraling. Every thought was about my father. 


“Lucy, why are you moping around? I know I taught you better than this,” a voice said from the corner of the room.


I know that the voice can’t possibly belong to my father, but it sounds too much like him. I can’t help but to turn toward the sound. My father’s sitting in the corner at his old desk. His back is facing the desk and he’s slouched on the plush desk chair, like nothing had changes. He used to tell me that the chair inspired him, that without it, he would never be able to write. My mom always hated the chair, but once Dad died she couldn’t stand to throw it away. 


I can’t believe my eyes! My father has been dead for five years. How can he possibly be sitting in the same room as me? 


Dad seemed indifferent to the state of shock that I was currently in. He casually picked at the seam of the chair and glanced up, “I want you to starting writing again. I don’t like seeing you like this. You can’t stop living your life just because mine’s over.” 


Everything’s moving so quickly! I still can’t believe that my dead father’s sitting in front of me, and now he’s giving me advice. I open my mouth and start speaking at a lightening pace, “Daddy! I can't believe you're here! Yes, Of course! I’ll do... I’ll do anything you want me to. Just don’t leave, okay? You can’t go anywhere. You have to stay here, with us. Mom and I, we miss you so much. Nothing’s been the same since...”


I hear a noise behind me and turn around to see my mom closing the door behind her. She’s staring at me with concerned eyes. “Lucy,” she says, “who are you talking to?” 


“Mom! Don’t you see him? It’s Dad! He’s right over...” I turn around only to find an empty desk and chair. I jump up and begin to run frantically around the house. I bust through every door, look under every chair, bed, rug, but find no sign of Dad. I return the the living room just in time to find my mom on the phone.


“Good Samaritan Clinic. This is Carla Kate Holloway, how may I help you?” shouts the phone.

“Hi. Yes, I’d like to schedule a mental evaluation. It’s urgent.” replies my mother. 


I don’t need to stay any longer to know where this is headed. I run to my room, open up a notebook and feverishly begin to write.

seven

I regain consciousness at 7:02, at least, that’s what time my watch says it is, but I feel like I’ve been laying on the alley's soot covered ground for days. I struggle to get up, and soon realize that whoever it was who beat me up, also took my skates and my cell phone. I don’t really care about losing my phone, in our old neighborhood my phone was stolen all the time. But my skates... those were my life. It took four months of teaching the least desirable age group, the 8 & 9 brats, for me to finally afford to buy a pair of skates that nice. And now they’re gone. Right before competition.

By now, all of the blood in my body had flooded my face and I was furious. This town was supposed to be safe! I thought I had finally escaped crime and violence, but now it seemed like it was never going to go away. “FUCK YOU!” I screamed at the ash-covered wall. 


Mom promised me that our lives would improve if we moved here, but I haven’t noticed any improvements. We’re still poor, I still have no friends, I’m still getting mugged, and my dad is still dead. The only consistent thing in my life was skating and now that’s gone too!


I try not to think about him much, my dad. I'm usually unsuccessful. Dad was wrongfully murdered by a drunk police officer when I was twelve. I try my best to block him out of my memory because nothing good ever comes from my mourning, but two things always sends me down "memory lane": unprovoked violence and the police. Now I had to deal with both.


I was there when my father was murdered. I saw everything.


Dad and I were walking home from the library. The latest novel in our favorite series had been released three days prior and dad and I were the first on the waiting list of fifteen people. I asked Dad how come we were number one. “I know some people in the underground book market,” he told me in his usual joking manner. Dad was a starving artist: a writer. He didn’t contribute much to the family’s income, but he brought Mom and I unbelievable happiness. He would go days without eating (without our knowing) so he could afford to pay for my skate lessons. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he would always tell me. I used to think he was just being a dad, a big cheese-ball, but now I get it. Even today, I’ve never met anyone or loved anyone as great as my father. 


As we walked home from the library, we each took turns trying to predict what we thought would happen in the novel, when, across the street, a policeman fell to the ground. Dad turned to me and told me to stay where I was and, above all else, not to begin reading the book without him. He ran across the street to help the officer. I smiled and pretended to read the pages. 


Dad reached down to help the officer up, but the man slapped away his hand. He started yelling at my dad, but Dad tried to play it off, like everything was okay. He just smiled and tried to offer his help to the officer again. Bad call. The officer tugged at my father’s feet and knocked him to the ground. 


Obviously, at this point, I was in hysterics; tears were violently running down my cheeks and I was screaming for someone to help my dad, the man who was being beat up by the cops. People pushed past me like I wasn’t even there. I didn’t understand why no one would help. I ran up to men and pulled as hard as I could on their coats, but they casually brushed me off. Like I was an annoying gnat that was loudly buzzing in their ear.


It wasn’t until four days later that I came out of shock. It was then that my father’s death was explained to me. The social worker told me that my father had been shot in the head twice by the drunken cop. Since then, I've never been able to face the police. Mom can't either. 


The murder changed every aspect of our lives. It’s the reason why Mom can’t hold onto a boyfriend. Why she cycled through through men at a lightning pace and why she's since decided to give up on dating; she’s still struggling to find anyone who even comes close to matching up with how great Dad was. It’s the reason I don’t have any friends. I never snapped back to the person I was before the murder. There’s no more joy or laughter left in my life. Skating and writing are the only two pleasures in my life that didn’t completely die when Dad did.

six

Three months after the accident, I received a letter in the mail saying that I needed to report to the police station. The letter assured me that my report was nothing formal, that I just need to give my account of what happened; apparently someone from another town was suing the bus company and they needed my account of the accident as some sort of evidence in their case. I didn’t want to visit the station. I don’t like police. 


With my mom’s advice ringing in my ears, I decide I have no choice but to go. “It’s always a good idea to cooperate with the police,” her voice echoed in an almost sing-songy tone. 


I left the apartment at 6:22 pm. For whatever reason, I decided to skate to the station. The station is only a two-minute walk from my house, but I want to head over to the rink afterwards. I know I’ll look stupid showing up to the police station in skates, but I don’t really care.

Although three months have passed, I’m still a little paranoid about buses and busy streets, so I cross the the street with caution. It’s 6:24 by the time I finally cross the street, I made sure to wait until it was absolutely safe for me to cross before effortlessly gliding across the pavement. Although I have another six minutes before I’m supposed to testify, I take a shortcut through the alley between the burnt down Forever 21 and the shoe store. “Stay on their good side,” I remind myself. I don’t want to be late.

It doesn’t take more than ten seconds into my alleyway shortcut, that I begin to regret my decision. The ally is covered in black soot and ashes from the fire, giving the alley a mysterious and sketchy vibe.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of a small bonfire and tipped over crates, but no people. I find myself wondering how something so sketchy is able to survive in such close proximity to the police station.

I start to turn around, but it’s too late. I feel a sharp pain in the back of my knees and crumble to the ground.

five

Nearly two weeks had passed since my visit to The Sawmill and the fire. I would use skating and school as my excuse for not going back, but that would be a lie. Really, I'm too afraid to keep writing. Working at Sawmill would only allow the fear to resurface.

Since I gave up on writing and on Sawmill, I've had a lot of time on my hands. Except I haven't done anything productive with the extra time. No, instead what I do is pace around the apartment and send myself into anxious fits. I need to get out of the house.

I decide to go Christmas shopping for my mom. Christmas is in a couple of weeks and I still haven't bought her anything. We don't have much money, but Mom always manages to make Christmas an event for me. I feel bad that I rarely put in the effort to do the same for her. I decide to take the bus into town and go to one of those big department stores.

 

I’m still mumbling to myself by the time I get to the street. I’m fumbling with my keys, trying to get them into the pocket of my purse when I hear as loud, sharp noise behind me.

“What the hel-” I think as I quickly jerk around.

Behind me is the blind man crossing the street shouting out what sounds like Linus’ speech in A Charlie Brown Christmas. In front of him is the orphanage school bus. The expression on the driver’s face is of pure terror. He knows the old man is in the street, but it look like he’s lost control of the bus when he drove over a large chunk of black ice in the road.

“Look out!” I screech as I’m running toward the old man. I have no choice, I’m already in the middle of street and my only option is to push the old man out of the path of the bus. I leap forward, and tackle him to the ground. I over estimated the man’s weight and leap a little too forcefully. I think I may have broken a couple of his ribs, maybe an arm.

Now people have started crowding around us. I see colors, but I haven’t regained my vision yet. I try to get up, but instead I black out. Again.