It All Started With The Screaming And Fighting Of My Dad

The parents came out of Grandma’s room by one by one, bags under their eyes, makeup running down their face, and bright red noses. By that time, I could almost predict what happened. As my mom and dad approached us with their heads down, I prepared myself to hear exactly what I never wanted to hear. “The doctors are turning off the life support machine. She isn’t suffering anymore, and she will be looking over every one of you guys. She said she loves you all so much,” Mom told us while my dad didn’t hide his tears back.

I walked away feeling like I was a complete failure and that I didn’t deserve to go on. On the way home my mother tried to talk to me, but, I put on my headphones and cried silently. Once we were home my father asked how it went. The tears that were in my eyes and they became more evident as my shoulders and chest were shaking and trembling. The only sound in the room was the sound of me crying and wailing. I started crumbling and falling to the ground and my mother and father rushed to my side. They held me until the tears came to a stop and a little bit afterwards

‘I don’t want to lose her,’ I kept repeating in my head trying to look strong for her. I was trying to not show how scared I was, trying to stop bursting into tears the second I saw her in the state she was. She was so weak and there was nothing I could do to help, except stay out of the doctor’s way. There were nurses and doctors rushing around and giving me a strange look until realization dawned on them. I was at the hospital with my mom around 10 at night, in my pajamas, wondering what was going to happen to her and if she was going to be okay.

Although I had an older brother and sister, I felt alone a great deal of the time I was growing up. I never "acted out" my need for attention. I did not get bad grades in school. On the contrary, I was a quiet child who made the honor roll. I was always given my sisters hand-me-downs which I resented. My grandmother was very strict and often cold. There were never hugs or kisses and not once do I remember an I love you. My father still came to visit, but remarried when I was eight. His new wife was like something out of a horror novel. The mental torture that I endured was a million times worse than what Cinderella went through. My grandmother along with my brother and sister came up with a nickname for me. They called me dog and taunted me every time we passed the pet supplies in the grocery store. At the age of ten my beloved paternal grandmother Memo, the only light in my otherwise dark world, died in her sleep while I was in the next room. I sat and watched as the paramedics tried to revive her with no success. On the car ride back home, my stepmother screamed at my father to "shut me up and stop my crying," as if what I had just been through should not have affected me at all. She left my father a few years later. At fifteen I ran away from my grandmothers house and went to live with my dad. I was receiving survivors support which I never saw once I moved in with my father. Although I did not know it

“I don’t feel so well” Jan’s father had suddenly said one morning at breakfast. Her father, a World War II veteran, stood up and went to go lie down. The rest of the family continued with their day. Michael went to see how his father was. When he tried to wake him his father didn’t respond or make a sound. The 11 year old boy was the one who first knew that his father was gone. The memory of her father’s loss is vivid in Jan’s mind. It was a substantial shock after he had survived the horrors of World War II and then just passed away quietly at home one morning. Jan now understands how

The large cut on the right side of my forehead had begun to bleed again; my own blood threatening to choke me. “Calm down its ok. You're going through a rough phase that's all. Try to get some rest,” was all the comfort dad could manage before choking up into tears. He turned away as streaks of auburn curls lightly brushed against me, the owner tending to my wound. Rest, he says; not so easy when every time your eyes droop, the dreams begin. They have been getting worse, the closer I become in finding a way to bring her

I felt someone rubbing my arm softly. When I opened my eyes, I was on the couch with… Katy was snuggled up against me and held my arm in place as I tried to move it from cradling her. Oh, but the man’s deep harsh voice that now rattled my brain had me frozen in place and in pain. Katy covered most of my face being in front of me as we spooned, but I could see (who had to be her dad) on the wall size TV looking at the two of us huddled closely together.

“Your grandfather didn’t just die Faith, he was murdered. My father put rat poison in his wine that night that our families got together for a dance. I tried so hard to stop him but he locked me up in my room so I couldn’t.” Embry had a shaky voice and a loud cry now. My head swarmed with terrible thoughts that I couldn’t get out of my head. My whole family thought he died of a heart attack. What if my parents really knew the truth and weren’t telling me? Why is Embry going for me and not anybody else? I collapsed to the ground. Lily immediately ran out from the popcorn cart and held me tight. It felt like my world was coming to an end. Embry kept apologizing like it was all her fault.

On my way across the street to visit Debbie, I noticed her truck was not in the driveway. I rang the doorbell but no one had answered. Later then for three weeks I had walked to her house to see if she was home. Then after many weeks of waiting, at about 7:34 PM, I walked over

I gasped for air between sobs. Tears from my wide, moistened eyes streamed unchecked down my pale

They swarmed around me. The tears felt like fire. I heard worried, faint murmurs. “she's not going to make it”, and they're reassuring my crying, helpless parents, “she's going to be alright”. Even though I was so young, I thought that this was it. The fear. The pain. The sorrow. The memories still haunt me to this day.

It had been a year, a whole year of scanning newspapers, searching the internet and calling the police, but nothing had come up. I thought hard about what Heath said. About how seeking what is true is not seeking what is desirable. How could the truth ever be hard to hear? The truth of my parents' murder was vital, and that’s the only answer I ever wanted.Soon I was lying on my bed, running my carefully manicured nails over the scars that were daintily painted over my wrists and cheek. I could never remember how I’d gotten them, but my parents had said I had fallen off of my bike. An unfortunate accident. My hands dropped down to the sides of the bed and I let my thoughts wander and crash into each other, almost like a surreal dream. Soon I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, running up the stairs. Clarice and Heath burst into my room, panting and looking at me with searching

A tear brushed down my face, picking up dust along the way, "W-where are you?"

A woman, 60 years old probably, grey hair and a face marked by the survive of life, was sitting in front of her house and invited us to go inside. Looking from outside, the house seemed a doll’s house, small. I am 5,25ft tall, but when I entered on her house I felt claustrophobic due the littleness of the room. Inside was dark, no windows and even that was summer time I felt cold. The walls were a mix of bricks, plywood and cardboard and the ground floor, uneven. The house smelled like food and as I entered more in the room I saw a small stove on the back wall. She told me that she lived there with her daughter and 3 grandchildren. I had to control my tears in front of her because I couldn’t imagine how it is leave in such precarious house and after that weekend, I went home more grateful and thankful for everything that I

It all started in the summer of 1990 about 25 years ago, I was a bright eyed pig tailed, seven year old girl with nothing to do in the hot summer day of Arcata California. I lived with my older sister, who was almost never home (she was in college) and my mom.