March 4, 2011

[Posted by Allie]

I've been slacking, I know. I'm sorry. I have actually been writing something amazing, but I'm not ready to stop and share bits of it yet. This is something I started and planned to finish during NaNoWriMo, but I lost my muse. Maybe it'll come back, who knows.

Dear son,

"What are you thinking, Tristan, you don't call him son." He marked out the line.

Hey kid,

Still unsatisfied, he marked out the line again. He finally decided to keep it simple.


This isn't easy for me to write, but my time is up. I can't live with the embarrassment, the people laughing because someone my age can't walk on his own. It can't be good for you either. So, I must end it. I want you to grow up and be a good kid. Your grandmother can guide you as best as she can, so be sure to listen to her. Don't give her any grief; I did enough of that before, and even after, you were born. Don't bother missing me; I know no one else will. Just live your life.


I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my face with both hands. I had wanted to wait until my son was eighteen and out of on his own, but I couldn't take the humiliation anymore. A man of my stature walking around with a cane, or doing something as close to walking as possible, in this town got you mocked and ridiculed by everyone around. After so many years, it gets old and starts to hurt the soul. I figured an end would bring peace to everyone. No one would laugh at me or my son and no one would feel sorry for my mother anymore. They wouldn't have to worry about my anger or keeping up with my medications. Life would just be easier for everyone without me.

The letter to Trevor was written, but I wasn't quite ready yet. I wanted to smoke one last joint and die peacefully. After the high had set in, I'd take the pills from the table next to me by the handful, and it'd all be over.

I walked to the bed, checked my cell phone, knowing I had missed no calls or texts, placed my earphones in their respective ears, and laid down, ready to drown in music for the next hour or two. Marijuana always made me relax enough to remember my past, and tonight was no different. Except that, this time, my memories started from the beginning and I saw my life pass before my eyes.


Chapter 1

My memories always start around the time I was twelve. That's when life started to go to Hell. I was always bullied in middle school for being a bookworm and a bigger kid. I kept to myself, trying to avoid any contact with anyone so as to avoid fights. I had spent my entire school career doing just that. Though, some bullies didn't like it when their victim was quiet, so coming home bruised up every few months was expected. Dad taught me how to fight, but I chose not to fight back most times. That changed the day I found out that he had died.

Something in me snapped that day. I didn't find out about the car accident that took his life until I got home from school that day. Mom said she didn't want to stress me out at school. I took the news silently, went upstairs to my room, put on my headphones, and drowned my pain with rock guitar music. I felt the anger fester up inside me. I was angry at God, at my mother, and most of all, at Dad, for leaving me alone in the world. Sure, he had been a hard ass, but he was my dad. He taught me everything I knew, from manners to sarcasm to how to beat someone with soap and a sock. How could he leave me?

The day of the funeral was filled with arguing. Mom was knit picking everything I did.

"Tristan, just wear the suit."


"I spent hard earned money on that, boy. You will wear it."

"You can go get your money back! Dad wouldn't care if I wore a suit or if I wore my jeans and a t-shirt."

"Well, he's not here. We need to be dressed nicely to represent our family. He wouldn't want you to make his family look bad, would you?"

"I don't care. I don't even want to go anyway."

I went, but I didn't wear the suit. No one noticed, anyway.

I went back to school the next day. On my way to the restroom, a kid a grade level above me stopped me. He said he'd kick my ass just because he could. He rared back to hit me and was surprised when I punched him in the gut. When he doubled over in pain, I landed five good punches to his face and head. He was surprised, but I hadn't hurt him enough to fully stop him. When he caught his breath, he punched me right in the nose. I wiped away the blood and pulled out a pocket knife.

"Touch me one more fucking time, and I'll slit your fucking throat," I warned.

He left me alone, but a teacher had heard the ruckus and came to check it out. Needless to say, I was kicked out of school for having the knife, let alone trying to use it.

Mom put me in every school nearby. We even moved so she could find more schools. I got kicked out of everyone after being suspended too many times. I stayed so angry that whenever anyone looked at me the wrong way, I snapped and would hit them. I heard whispers about me in hallways, and would beat the shit out of the person who started the rumors after threatening those who were spreading them. Principals and counselors always told Mom to send me to a therapist and to anger management courses. I would go, sure, but I would clam up. No one could get a word out of me so they couldn't get inside my head. Mom gave up on trying to get "fixed" when I was fifteen. I was expelled for skipping classes to smoke pot in the bathroom. It was two weeks until my sixteenth birthday so Mom said I could just get a head start on dropping out, since she knew I was going to anyways.

I spent a week straight at the houses' of family and friends. Mom was starting to become dependent on alcohol and I couldn't take her drunken rages on top of the rage I felt. My cousin Harry's house was my favorite place to go. His mom didn't care if we drank and smoked. In fact, she was the person who gave me my first joint the day after my dad died. She said it would calm me down. And it did, but never enough.

Harry and I would hang out in his Dad's garage and tinker on an old fixer upper that was Harry's eighteenth birthday present. We would turn up the radio and work, just the two of us, enjoying the music and each other's silence. I stayed there for a week straight before going home. The stays eventually got longer, though, as Mom had a new boyfriend who liked to drink just as much as she did. He'd get pissed off at me for being there and would always try to start a fight with me. Instead of dealing with that, I'd just stay away and let them pickle their livers.

Eventually, Mom's new boyfriend's newness wore off and he started showing his true colors; he was an angry drunk. I took up for her in the beginning, taking his focus off of her so he'd fight me, instead. After a while, I gave up, because Mom never kicked him out. She stood by and watched me take the fall for her over and over and never once told the jackass to get off me. After a few months of it, I decided to move out. Mom didn't seem to give a shit about her own flesh and blood, and neither did Harry, who was moving away to work in a steel factory in Alabama. He had friends there who put in a good word for him and he got in pretty easily.

They were leaving me alone, just like Dad had done.

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