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We’re driving up a narrow street, our little Volkswagen Jetta slows down, the sounds of sand and rocks grinding between the wheels and the pavement. Though I already noticed the car coming to a halt, the place we stopped just felt off. It was a normal street, no stores between apartments, just houses.

“Guess where we are!?”, Mom glances at me quickly through the rear view while reversing the vehicle.

“No mom, I thought you were driving towards that old high school you used to go to?”, I say this not knowing it’s a lie. I know that house too well. It was the apartment that my mom and dad used to live in. I remember now why I feel so uneasy, it’s where I saw that thing.

I can remember the little side room that was on the other side hall from my parents, in that room was a crib on the center wall where I would sleep soundly but I was awake this time, that’s my room. It’s funny trying to stretch a scene that probably took 6 seconds into one that seems like 30 looking back at it fifteen years later, I close my eyes and open them to end up in that same crib.

I’m a baby now, turning my head must feel like moving on anesthetics and with the warm and protective green of the walls only makes my time awake more limited, the room has one little window that covered, the crack between the drape shows me it must be early morning. Even as a baby I could tell some things were up with the light this morning because I saw the sun. No, not a real sun but a small green one, the green sun. It’s glow was respectable, only illuminating within a couple of inches from its body. It’s weird, it has a face, almost sinister in its warm smile but oddly making me sleepier. Its revolves, just like the sun would and its face becomes hidden from me once more and as the face disappears completely, so does its body, sinking back into the ceiling of my room and I sink back into a slumber.  

I wake, still with the same amount of question about that object I saw all those years ago. I can’t help but wonder weather or not it was real, I used to think it was my guardian angel, my zodiac of sorts but now driving off I’m almost certain it was best to forget again.

There were pieces everywhere. Sharp, shattered, sparkling. The music masked the clatter, but only long enough to shield younger eyes. Some things take time to understand. The room filled in and flowed out, buckets, bags, and rags trickling with them. I am cold, but it was summer, and I had been warm only seconds before.

My happiness drained through my toes. The shouting was loud but I wasn’t listening, there were too many busy faces and furrowed brows to distract me.

He went straight through it, I heard, but I couldn’t see him. I searched for his tangled blonde mop but he had already disappeared. They whizzed around. Suds flew. Towels rolled. Bodies on autopilot. An organized frenzy. I couldn’t control the mess. It was going to last longer than the blood. My skin crawled.

He was rescued. Removed and absorbed. No longer at stake. We picked his pieces off the floor. Removed the evidence. We rescued him from second death but we were still in danger. I hated that he put me in danger.

My time there had been long and short. Summers don’t last forever but they happen every year. Each time it feels like we never left our bubble in the woods. Our own heated snow globe. But his hand broke the glass. He shook too hard. Disturbed the comfortably settled dust. We let him. So we fixed it. Patched his hand and the door. Closed the young eyes. Shielded him by shielding ourselves. Everyone is affected by weak links.

Plastic protected my bitten fingers from the glass but I was still bare. At mercy of another; powerless to change his mistakes. The bass still bumped, matching my heart beat. I had to walk away. Find comfort in less danger, away from the shards, away from the glares. I wanted to be warm again. But that was too much to ask.

The chaos chilled me no matter how many layers I put on. I wasn’t protected anymore. But that is life. The fog lifts on everything eventually. If you don’t prepare for the worst, you will be left cold, shivering. It took too long for me to see this. Took shards covering the floor where children played. They would never know. They didn’t have to know. We glued their snow globe back together with our stories. We kept them warm.

This passage came from one of the short memories written in the class exercise. Originally, the memory was from a specific episode. However, I ended up adapting it and simplifying the idea into a simple unnamed episode. Mr. Brown is meant to symbolize a dramatized version of loneliness. He finds solace in this TV series where the characters make jokes and live carefree lives. He sees this as what he wants in life, and it makes him smile. When the characters are in his ears, he does not feel so alone.

Cold hospital air hit my nose as I sniffled, I stared at the hospital bed in front of me, holding my dad’s hand. I thought back to all of the time I had spent with him, sitting with my mom in the small apartment we lived in, awaiting my father’s arrival home from work. My mom walked around, humming to herself and cleaning spots off of the countertops. That’s when a key hit the lock, turned, and the door opened. “Daddy!” I yelled, hopping off of the couch to run into my uniformed father’s outstretched arms. He picked me up and squeezed me tight, that’s when I assume that my mom walked over and kissed him on the cheek, asking him how his day was. That’s what she normally did at least, but it slips my mind if she did it that day.

He then put me down, walking over to the cd player that sat in the corner of the living room. Ring of Fire, by Johnny Cash started playing, followed shortly by my father’s raspy voice singing along. He then picked me up and held me in his arms. We danced around the living room of the small apartment we lived in, while my mom sat and watched, smiling from ear to ear.

I can’t remember how long we danced for, if it was just that song or more to come. I can remember though, how the smell of cigarettes radiated off of his clothing when you got close enough. That’s when the beeping of the hospital monitor and my dad’s deep coughing pulled me out of my daydream. He half smiled, the most he was able to do. I held tears back as I smiled back, squeezing his hand.

In you, everything sank. This phrase pops into my head, from an English class long past, or at least that’s how long it feels. We spent weeks upon weeks investigating every couplet, scrutinizing every stanza. I hated it. I hated talking about “author’s intent”. Why did Pablo Neruda repeat this line? Why was it a motif? Who gives a shit? In you, everything sank. I think about you and I wish I didn’t. The kid who sat next to me would always fall asleep. I couldn’t blame him. It was an easy escape. Why did I ever bother staying awake? His light snore invades my thoughts, of Neruda, of the teacher’s droning. It’s there, gently, always reminding me that there’s another way out.

In you, everything sank.

Stocks pop into my head. Our economics teacher was always right after English. He taught us all about the stock market that year. We even invested a little bit ourselves. I heard but didn’t listen. In you, everything sank. Science was next. We would skip class together, you and I. We’d sit in the stairwell and talk. Or we wouldn’t. But we always understood.

In you, everything sank. It happened on a Sunday. The Lord’s day. Funny, because we had always hated religion. I like to imagine you did it to spite God. I didn’t find out until Tuesday: you weren’t in the stairwell. They called me to the office. Your mom broke the news.  In you, everything sank. On a whim today, I visit the bridge. The cold wind whips my hair, the seagulls below call, like sirens. And I, too, am sinking.

In the dentist office I couldn’t seem to get my mind off the fact that I will be removing my braces. I was nervous because of all the stories I had heard and experiences from my friends. It was a strange feeling because I was afraid, but I also felt relief. I had been waiting on this moment for so long. At first, I wanted braces desperately; I thought they were appealing because of the different colors, they were like jewelry for your teeth. I didn’t need braces, I wasn't qualified to get them because the dentist said my teeth were fine and straight. When I first got them, I couldn't eat, drink, or sleep for a week. Braces were the most painful thing in the world. We went on vacation the day after I had them done. I couldn’t enjoy anything. Later on, it got better and I thought I would start to like them, but I didn’t. Food always gets stuck in your teeth when you have braces, which is disgusting. As much as you brush your teeth, they never seem to be clean. Your breath somehow never stays fresh and it's the most annoying thing in the world. Thinking about that pain of getting them on, I didn’t want to feel it again. This time, it would be twice as bad. I kind of felt like leaving the office. It was almost my turn. I’ve been afraid of the dentist ever since the first time I ever took my tooth out, I was four going on five. My mom told me I had to go to the dentist to remove the tooth. In my head there was no way I was going to the dentist. It was a late night and my mom was home with friends. I went into the bathroom twisted my tooth out and finally got rid of it, I came out proud to show my mom and everyone else. And for that I overcame my fear of taking out my teeth. I guess removing my braces wouldn't be so bad afterall, I could get them removed and get it over with.

Authors note:

In my writing I chose to emulate Margaret Atwood's style of writing because she uses symbolism to represent what is going on, whereas Ken Kesey uses dialogue. For my writing piece I think Margaret Atwood's style fit best with what I was trying to do with my writing. I used a lot of symbolism to emphasize my emotions as Atwood did in the handmaid's tale. I also visited many similar memories to connect them all to one main point of overcoming my fear. I feel as though Atwood does a great job of that and I was inspired to use more of her skills in this writing for that reason.

Creative Writing Piece: Haunted

Reading our old text messages brought me back to where it all started. The flirtatious conversations, the plans for our first date, our first phone call. It reminded me of a happier time, one that bore no resemblance to the trauma I’d end up facing. Looking back on it now, I wish I would have known that the first phone call would be a contract I unknowingly signed. He wanted all of my time, every second of it. If I said I was busy or that I wouldn’t be able to call that day, he’d guilt trip me by threatening to kill himself. He knew that was my weakness. That I cared about him enough that I couldn’t risk it happening.  I felt helpless. I couldn’t help myself because if I left and he ended up killing himself, it would be my fault. The guilt would have been harder to handle than dealing with him ever was. As time went on, I thought I’d been getting better with coping. I thought going to therapy was aiding my healing process. It was supposed to show me that his abuse was not my fault.

I hadn’t noticed that my heart had been racing until now. My posture was stiff and my breath was coming in and out in nervous, short intervals. Just seeing his name brought back all the terrible memories. It reminded me that he still followed me everywhere. His harsh words were forever embedded into my being, and whether I liked it or not, he still had me under his control. I could never get away. He knew exactly what to say in order to make me stay. “You can’t leave me, Claire,” “I’ll kill myself if you do!” he’d say. His mental health history and the things he’d confided in me during that first phone call let me know that the threat was real. I was convinced that the fate of his life was in my hands. It was too late now. There was no turning back. I wish I would’ve known that there’d be one moment in time where the rest of my time would never be mine.

Author’s Note:
When writing my reconstruction of memory, I was inspired to emulate Margeret Atwood’s narration tactic of putting more emphasis on how the moment she’s writing about makes her character’s feel rather than spending too much time contextualizing the moment itself. I felt that putting an emphasis on the emotion would aid in the characterization of the narrator of my memory and would make it easier for the reader to see that her memory was a reflection of her experience. Similarly to Chief Bromden in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest by Ken Kesey, the narrator of my piece solely speaks about her experience with her antagonist in order to show the effect he’s had on her. It was an intentional choice on my part to make the narrator of my story focus on the actions of all of the other characters but themselves because I didn't want the reader's perspective to be skewed. As for the topic, I felt that writing about emotional abuse in the manner that I did would allow people to see how it’s an internal battle that many people can not see.

My elbow lied on the armrest, with my jaw in my hand. As I glared out of the window, I let my eyelids float along my eyes. I felt tired, but I couldn’t go to sleep because the bus was too cold, so I sat in silence and watched my reflection cascade over the mountaintops. When did I get so old? It feels like just yesterday I was living with those I used to call my family. My family and I were kinda like a beat-up car. It’s funny now, but we were so beat up that we were constantly in need of repairs. Everytime the mechanic fixed us there was always something else, we were always in need of an oil change.

This one time, I had to be about 15 and I did not want to live with my parents anymore. I hated it. Living with them felt like living alone because there was no support.

“I’m hungry,” I said to my mom who was tucked away on the living room couch.

“Well go find something to eat then” she said casually, as if we had food in the house to sift through.

“We only have these arbitrary ingredients, I can’t make anything out of these.” I responded, hoping that she’d throw me a bone and feed me.

“Well we have bread, and a toaster. So figure something out.” This was my mom at her most helpful. I looked at her from our tiny kitchen and I saw that she’s sank into the couch even further than she has before, she’s not getting up. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her get up from that couch before.

“We don’t have anymore bread, I ate it all. You’ve been telling me that for the past three days.” Then she said something along the lines of, “Well, look for something else then. You need to learn independence, start feedin’ yourself. I’m not gonna be here all the time, start lookin out for yourself,” she continued.  “‘Cause at the end of the day it’s kill or be killed.” She answered.

What was the word for it? It ended in an “ia”, like every term describing something does. The term that describes a feeling. The feeling you get of understanding that when you’re on a bus, everyone on the bus has an imagination as vivid as yours, with a life as detailed and crazy (or not) as yours. There’s a word for it but I always seem to forget it when I need to remember it.  

What a conversation starter that would be.

Bright lights. Bright lights and white halls. Bright lights and white halls and white tiled floors. Prison. At least the walls were covered in colorful drawings done by what I assume to be the prisoners. Walking even further in, and taking a right, the walls changed color from white to orange. I don’t think it was a good idea to wear my bright neon green jumpsuit. I would surely get picked on and my stuff would get stolen. But that morning I was feeling confident, as if the world couldn’t touch me.

Funny enough, I didn’t have an escort so I felt a slight sense of freedom. But that small feeling quickly left, fleeting my grasp as I continued on through the hallway. I passed rooms full of the other inmates. The rooms seemed to be all the same, rows and tables of people, getting fed information. I was expected to report to one of these rooms pretty soon now.

As I neared the end of the hallway, I came across a small metal door. Opening the small metal door revealed a small room with a singular chair in it. In the chair sat a small man that resembled a leprechaun. A thought came to mind; that I should ask him where he keeps his pot of gold, but I quickly dismissed the idea because this could be a potential leader. I noticed the leprechaun man was wearing knee socks. I don’t think I was in any position to judge this man for what he wore. After all, I was wearing a neon green jumpsuit. What caused this man to wear those knee socks? There was a series of events that made him, after all. There must have been something crazy going on in his life. And there’s a word for what I’m realizing. What’s the word again...

Authors Note:

Our old house was small but it always fit us. Our living room was the main hub that everyone frequented and it was the main room before we entered and left.  As a family of four in a small South Philly row home, we were always together for the good and the bad. The good, playing house under the desk that my big sister rarely studied at. The okay, getting chased up the stairs and down the hallway when I broke one of my sister’s paper robot collections. And the bad, which were usually from my sister to my parents - now that I think of it. I remember specifically the first bad time I had in the house and it wasn’t because of me. I was young enough to understand but not old enough to fully understand.

This time, the TV was on but no one was watching. The TV volume was muted but it sounded like there was a fight scene happening. The voices were loud but familiar. Looking up, I saw my sister arms bent at her side and in an angry SuperWoman stance and my parents standing over her. They were fuming. I stood behind them, staring at my sister yelling back at my parents. She was nine and we never did that as kids. We don’t talk back to our parents like we need to enforce nine year old made rules. But I guess Ellen didn’t learn that yet. My parents said “well if you don’t like the rules, you can get out!” What?! Get out? I remember standing there, crying without even noticing at first. This girl is my only sister - how can they just tell her to get out? I felt the tears and the heavy breathing kick in and everything was muffled as the snot filled my nose and ears. I couldn’t make of the last thing they were yelling about but the next thing I knew was Ellen was getting picked up and I dropped our taling toy dragon.

As he hit the ground, he said “I love boisenberries,” but that didn’t stop them! That would have stopped me! My dad put her outside and watched her through the screen, door half cracked to isolate her. I remember crying even harder. They just threw away my sister! My only best friend. What was I going to do? I didn’t have the power to let her back in, right?  I paced around scared and started packing some food, clothes, and shoes. She was barefoot on the door mat! That’s not allowed. After packing, my five year old body pushed the door back to let her in. My parents were shocked. They're faces were focused on what I would do next so I let her in. I was a big girl making big moves for my big sister.

After she stayed outside of the house for a few minutes, I opened the door to let her in. We both started crying and hugging each other. We cherished every moment from there on. That was really a traumatic experience for a little kid to experience even though they were not the one in trouble but got to see. To this day, my parents have never done that again. When I look back, I see that this teaching moment brought us together.

I was only in seventh grade when my mom picked me up after school to go straight to the hospital. This time it seemed more serious than others, but I didn’t fully understand the circumstances. Not even a few days later, my oldest brother, Jesse, got a call from our family members that were at the hospital. I remember responding to him as he yelled my name with an attitude. I was annoyed by him rushing me to come to his room, without thinking of a reason why he would want me to run.

My mom wanted my two brothers and I to come say bye to my grandpa. I didn’t begin to cry. Instead, I grabbed a tastykake and got in the car with my aunt, who would drive us to the hospital. She tried to talk to us about our day and have a casual conversation, and I still wasn’t fully aware of what I had to say when I got to the hospital. Looking into the hospital room, I saw a few of my aunts and uncles standing around the hospital bed where my grandpa was laying down. They stepped aside for my brother Seth and I to come in. My brother must’ve went first because I remember being in the room when he started to speak. Whenever I recount what happened that day, I hear Seth’s voice in my head, “Uh grandpa… this is Seth… I love you.” I followed up just by telling him I loved him. I had never lost a loved one before, let alone have to figure out a way to say goodbye. When I turned back around to look at him after leaving the room, I felt like I was falling apart. The tears that were streaming down my face wouldn’t stop. Whether I went back inside to make another remark or stayed outside crying, there was nothing I could do or say that would change him being gone forever. Saying goodbye to someone makes you think about everything you could have done before that moment to appreciate them more, but it was just too late.

Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick.

System failure! System failure! Someone, please help! I’m begging you! I’m not ready for my life to be over. Please help!

Black clouds, time lost.

Keep flying the plane! Get the power plant back up, make sure the rudder is straight, do something! It can’t be over, it barely started.

Void fills, sound barrier breached.

Screams lost in tears. One heartbeat fills the plane. Lost, damaged, frightened. How are we going to secure it?

Downward spiral, fiery inferno.

Engine failure. Reconnect, rewire, redirect. Please do something. Help me, please! I’m scared. Don’t let it be over! Can you get it back running? Please, say you can. Please! I’m begging you.

Beaten, weak, suffering.

First officer is down. The rudder is tilted far left we’re all going down

Light streams, numbness engulfs.

Save the passengers! Save them, please I’m begging you!  The world freezes no sound to be heard. We’re going down. I’m afraid it’s ending, and my worlds falling apart.

The landing gear has failed, please help!

System failure! System failure!

The powers out for only a few seconds, light begins to flicker through the room as if it’s lost its the strength to turn on. Somethings wrong, a wisp of tears leans against my face. I know this isn’t a dream, it’s a nightmare. The flickering light becomes a tunnel. The slow ticking immerses, a face appears. Dr. Davis looks at me lost and says “I’m sorry sir, your wife body wasn’t strong enough, her system failed. She’s dead and so is your child. I’m sorry. I did everything I could to help.”

I've lost my life, I’ve lost my wife. My child is gone. I’m alone. I sit on the side of bed replaying the daily nightmare. The world doesn’t seem real. Her spot is precisely how she left it. Bed unkempt, lavender slippers adjacent the closet still with the little dust-bunny she never picked off. It’s been months but I lose her again every night. Every time I creep over to kiss her good-night I slip into her non-existent presences once more. Every use of the restroom when I run out of paper and call her with no answer in return. She’s promised to always be there. And she isn’t here now.

Audio / Visual companion -

Song:

Cheetah Girls- It’s Over

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vLsO5TdKtJQ

  I slid the key into the door and turned it, hearing that reassuring click that meant it had been unlocked. A long and stressful day has once again brought me to the comfort of my warm and cozy home. However as I entered my house I wasn’t greeted by my mother in the usual cheerful way. There was an eerie mood inside, one I hadn’t felt often before. The Television was off, no Polish dramas were playing, and my mother wasn’t on the brown couch we’ve had since moving in. As I came into the dining room I could see my mom sitting at the kitchen table, tears running down her face. I had never seen her like this before, my mother was the strongest person I knew. She could barely hold onto the phone in her hand. My brother and I looked at each other. Grandpop is dead, he’s gone she said with a tremble in her voice. I dropped my bag which, I had been holding with one arm and immediately embraced her, my brother following forthwith. I could feel her tears hit the back of my neck.

       I hadn’t said anything, I didn’t know what to say. I remember feeling sadness, the purest form of it that had ever resided in me. I wanted to cry, I felt my eyes watering, but I couldn’t, not now. I knew I had to stay strong for her, as she had been for me in the past. He’s in a better place now mom, I told her, but it wouldn’t change anything. How did it happen I asked. He died in his sleep, she answered. Thank you, she said to my brother and I. I knew we hadn’t done much, there wasn’t anything we could do other then be there for her, but still there was so much gratitude in her eyes. My eyes watered again. I remember thinking what I would do if I ever lost her, how I could continue living knowing I’d never get to talk to her again. Do you want me to make you tea, I asked her. I had to distract myself. Yes, thank you Marcin, she answered and so I went to put water in the kettle. As I poured water in the brass kettle, I remembered doing the same back in Poland when I went to visit my grandparents, I remember what my grandpop had told me back then. One day when I won’t be on this Earth anymore, it will be your responsibility to help your mom for me he said. The first tear fell. It hit the kettle and slid down into the sink. I went to turn on the stove.

       I don’t like to remember this memory, as the loss of a loved one is never something pleasant to remind yourself of. It is easier to try and forget, but forgetting is not an option. Sharing this memory will force me to remember, I have to accept what has happened and honor my grandfather’s memory. The present I live in is one without my grandfather in it, all that’s left is his memory and legacy, unlike the memories I have of the past, a past with him in my life.

Authors Note:

Similar to the style of narration presented in the Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, in my reconstruction there is a past tense in which I narrate the memory, but there is also a present tense where I reflect upon it and I why it is important to me. In Offred’s narrative we see her describe the emotions she feels towards memories she shares with the readers. I chose to write about this topic because of how it has affected me emotionally and molded me into the person I am today. I saw this topic as very relatable, as we have all gone through something similar or will go through it one day.