BS (Barb's Stories)

[Barbara Ann Storrier]

I wrote this quickly during the Red Hot July Writing Fest in the Writer's Clique.

Feelin' Fine, Thank You

Cheated out of a happy childhood, that's how she felt. Fear turning into mushy anger that had to be kept inside. How could you not love your dad? She knew her big brother still did, even after he'd almost bled to death at the bottom of the stairs and then all the way to the bathroom with the aid of mom, and a thick bath towel turning completely crimson, pressed to his gut. Dad told her to hurry and clean it up, before it ruined the hardwood floors. She did as she was told. Dad put the X-acto knife down, walked out the door, and on down the street. She could glimpse the flashing blue and red lights reflecting on the windows, and hear the radios crackling with strange voices out there, while she tried to play with Lois down the street in their brightly lit and modestly furnished den. Somehow, Barbie and Ken and the outfits you could dress them up in just did not get through the horrid fog of fear and confusion clouding her ten year old brain. At last she was allowed to go home because Dad had been picked up by the police cruiser and taken to the mental hospital. Or jail. Or something. It was all a blur.

Then the long train ride with Mom and big brother, weak but miraculously still alive, just out of the hospital. She tried to help keep her toddler sister and infant brother from getting too upset. Big brother was sullen and angry at Mom for leaving, and wouldn't speak to anyone. Danny Thomas had come from Chicago, and gotten on the train amongst a lot of head turning, elbow poking, and whispers about him being Danny Thomas. She didn't much care. Later she would brag about it to her friends, even though she couldn't even picture his face.

In California she was glad to see her grandma, and her grandpa, too. But she was not going to listen to anybody. After an unremarkable birthday, school started, and she wore make up to the first day of fourth grade. Washed it off in tears during the first recess. Hollywood was a lie. They laughed at you if you wore make up. A sad and sullen Christmas, finding out that Santa was a lie, too, because she couldn't sleep and the Christmas tree was in the same room with the bed. After a brief friendship with another quiet and withdrawn student, she met someone who was just the opposite, with more Barbie dolls than she had ever seen before in one place.

She was easy to control most of the time, buried in a Barbie fantasy world every day after school until bedtime, with a quick break to run home for dinner. Sometimes she was invited to eat Chicken Delight that her friend's mom had ordered in. Her friend's mom wasn't around much because she was tending bar. They could do pretty much whatever they wanted to do. Every once in a while it all became too much, and the anger flashed out, but she always apologized, because she knew anger was very bad.

Her brother finished high school, went into the army, Viet Nam. She sent him letters and a peace symbol. Her brother came home, got a divorce. Got married again. And always, always went on trying to please Dad and win his acceptance, for most of the rest of his life. He never did succeed.

Dad died on her birthday. Damn it all, she thought. He did it on purpose. She thought she had forgiven him many times. She didn't know that she hadn't. She had never been able to ask for what she wanted. She was too afraid to ask for an apology. So it was never offered. Even when he died, she mostly felt relieved that she no longer had to spend so much time feeling guilty for not calling him very often. She thought again that it was all over with. It wasn't. Her mom had to live on welfare. Her dad got remarried and lived in one of his wife's houses right on the Southern California beach with his collection of Thunderbirds. He tried to give her one once. She didn't want it.

Finally, one day when she was over fifty years old, her dad's spirit came to her, as her face was crumpled in agony, weeping uncontrollably over disappointment with a lover. She felt her father's sorrowful presence intensely, and cried even harder, and in that moment, she felt forgiveness at last.

[Anne Westlund]

Really well written, Barb. You might consider expanding on this even more. :)

[Barbara Ann Storrier]

Thanks, Anne, I will consider that :)

[Frank]

Good piece of writing, Barb. I hope it is not based on real life (except for the ending of course). Forgiveness can be cathartic. I want to see more of your work.

[Barbara Ann Storrier]

Apologies for missing your reply until now, Frank ... I seem to do that a lot around here. Thanks much, your comment means a lot to me as I consider you a very talented writer. Yes, true story, that just poured out directly onto the reply window of a prompt in Writer's Clique one day. Yes, true forgiveness is extremely cathartic, a burden off one's shoulders ... a burden that can't really even be perceived until after it is lifted.

[Francesca]

This is beautiful... the way you condense so much in so little space is elegant

[Barbara Ann Storrier]

Thank you, Francesca! :) It felt good to write it. I've had suggestions to make it longer ... maybe I will sometime. But yes, I was content with this version, too.