Blogging 101 has asked the Blogging U students to create a feature. I struggled for a while over it, I played with my woolen ball, climbed the curtains, and scratched all over the doors in frustration but I managed to decide on what I wanted to do.
A friend, back when I still struggled over my About page, gave me a comment that began with a quote from Hemingway:
‘Mice: What is the best early training for a writer?
‘An unhappy childhood.’
Though I told you earlier about the dramatic events that still scar me to this day, I never went into any detail. I believe you are ready to see at least some of my past and I believe I am ready to tell you about it, but in a way I can keep my objectivity. Through a story.
Noodle’s father was drunk. Noodle’s mother was drunk. Everyone was rightly drunk.
It was expected. After all, it was the new year. The night was loud with hoots and hollers and horrible karaoke, drunken laughter interspersed with dogs barking as the warm summer air breezed above the vulgar celebrations. People in her town got drunk every weekend. Every single weekend was the same monotonous affair. Her parents would go to their friend’s home and get drunk, dragging their 13 year old along, and then they would go home, her clutching the safety belt like a life line as her father served the car back and forth. It was only down the street anyway.
But that night was different. Her father had lost his patience with one of the younger characters, a boy closer to her age than her father’s. It didn’t take long for the argument to devolve into threats of violence, her father brandishing a belt while his opponent taunted him.
They were yelling now and Noodle rushed to her fathers side, pleading him to calm down. At first, her father resisted, the murderous rage brought about by the alcohol burned in his eyes. He strained against her until he felt wet splashes on his arm. He turned to his daughter and his rage was drowned by her tears. His daughter was crying. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around his trembling progeny and uttered silent apologies into the night.
Together, after they gathered her mother, the tiny family began the lonely trek home, this time on foot.
It was only down the street anyway.
But as they did, a vengeful soul furtively followed them. The night was far from over.
I’ve kept this brief because to describe everything that happened that night would take too much of your time. This series is me exposing myself and the more sordid pieces of my memory because often enough, people tend to look over brief encounters like this thinking that the child will forget. Children never forget such moments, they can’t.