Why blog?

I have to keep a blog for my creative writing class, many assignments will be posted by some other writings, poems, or thoughts will be shared. Let me know what you think!

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Final Short Story


One hundred seventy-five. One hundred and seventy-five 4 by 4 pasty alabaster tiles covered the small square ceiling of the purple room with gold-framed awards across the wall. I lay on a velvet couch that looked like it belonged to a queen as my curly hair dangled over the armrest. I starred up to the ceiling to count the tiles for the 200th time, every once in a while saying a few words, "I feel" "Today I" And "for a while" then looking over at a mid-aged woman who sat on a small crimson chair  with clothes that were too small and never matched, she scribbles things down. I wondered what she wrote and if she wrote anything at all. Never looking up from the notebook she would randomly spit out words "I see" "tell me more" "how does it make you feel?". At times I did not have a chance to answer before she'd fix her big square glasses and start to scribble again. I'm sure if I left she would never notice. I don't know how she does it; day after day sitting in that same chair that now bore the imprints of her blossom when she stood. Just sitting with a notebook, hearing the problems of millions of other people for hours they would complain and she would listen. Knowing not once would someone ask her how she "feels" today. I dare not ask for I knew what it was like to be on the other side to be everyone's shoulder to lean on, invisible. I could be wrong, she could be happy with her life thinking she is helping others by just hearing their problems. But is it helping when you're paid to sit and hear people complain? By analyzing their issues and informing them "why they are the way they are" like they don't already know? I knew she thought I was crazy like the rest of them. Like always she ended early, not even looking at the time, "oh Tiffany you've done marvelous today! Next week, same time?" She grabbed my papers and sped to the front desk where she whispered to the receptionist, she could never whisper. "Double her douse of memazine." And she was gone off to probably inject her face with more poison though you couldn't see a single line in her face now. I followed behind putting on my coat and picked up the prescription. Just what I needed more anti-depressants to fill my body with. The young receptionist gave me a smile. I think creeped him out because when I smiled back he gave a puzzled face and turned away. I'm a little rusty on the whole smiling thing.
                I stepped outside, the icy frigid cool Boston air hit my face and of course no one is there. I've learned not to expect him to be there anymore. He always forgot I existed. As usual I stroll down the street to Point Place a small area where two larger buildings shared a small park. There is a trail behind one building one wouldn't know is there unless they already knew, it leads to a hill that oversees the wide city. This was my home, a place I could clear go to my head for a while. I had been coming here for years ever since my mother passed away. Tall trees surrounded the area it was small but big enough for me. If I could I would build a house here and never leave. I rested my head against a tree with no intention of calling my father to remind him that he did in fact have a daughter.
I walk down the old hallway to apartment 508 with a small cold bag from McDonalds in my hand. I had worked only a few days at the butcher shop this week, sometimes if I gave customers a little extra they gave me tips, which bought my dinner for the night. I just barely reach the door when Mary came running out of her apartment. "Tiff! Listen my sister has a friend whose daughter’s roommate is like moving away and like gained a bunch a weight or I don't know but she left me some clothes I think would be perfect for you! Come come!" Before I had a chance to reply Mary had grabbed my arm and was pulling me through her doorway. Mary was the kind of person you didn't really say no to and she loved hearing her voice so getting in a word was difficult too. She was in her late 40s light brown hair and brown eyes, she was reaching the stage where you can start to read the troubles someone has been through on their face. Though she still had an amazing body, she used to be a gymnast or something of the sort until she got into a car accident and had to stop. I take a step into the house and she rants as she digs through a closet "I had it right here! Give me a second doll let me look in the other room sit sit" as she walks away I glance around the room looking at pictures of her in her younger years across the wall she did so many things. I stop at a picture of Sarah, she's holding a trophy while in a swimsuit. At times I forget Mary use to have a daughter she was beautiful and looked just like her. She had long curly hair like mine only mine was blonde like my fathers. She would have been around my age if she were still alive, I wondered if that was why Mary treated me like a daughter at times. Her way of giving love that she still had left to give and in a way she filled the gap left behind by my own mother. She came back with a bag filled with clothes and a container with mountains of homemade food. "I had some extra food from dinner I hope you like stuffed f turkey and mash potatoes" She gave me that mother smile the one you get before your mom sends you off to school with your lunch, I've missed that smile. "Thank you Mary Thank you so much it smells delicious" I picked up the bag of clothes and headed next door. She watched me with a half-smile until I stepped into my apartment. The place seemed empty with only the sound of the TV going, dishes were piled in the sink from this morning and the trash needed to be taken out. The wallpaper was starting to peel. "Home sweet home" I thought. My father laid stump on the sofa chair with a beer in hand. He had gone 2 weeks without a drink; I guess the count will start again tomorrow. Everything that the man once stood for, the marines, the country, his family, his job, everything was sucked out of him that day. I imagine all that was left in his body was a shell of skin and bone, no blood, no muscle, no heart, no anything. I watch his tummy slowly move up and down, a sign he is still alive. I open the fridge, a cup, cheese, baking soda, butcher knife, 12 pack of beer and old fruit. I was shocked to see the fridge so full. I tried my best to make the dump look descent enough so when he woke he would not be angry. I picked up the basket of laundry and placed it on the table it knocked over a book and a picture flew out. I slowly pick it up; it was a picture of me and my mother on my 7th birthday. I was dressed like a princess in a bright pink dress and lots of ribbons, my mother wore a light pink dress I use to love every time we matched. We were so happy. I suddenly got a flashback;

I was walking down the stairs to a basement, it was quiet almost too quiet. Light from the windows tried its best to peak through but the wooden boards blocked most of it. The walls were blank a light tan, some of the walls had cords and wood running along them; I was told never to touch them. Toys and stuffed animals covered most of the grey basement floor, this place that should have been scary felt safe. I scan the room and stop to see the pretty pink fabric run down the legs that lay lifeless behind the washer, I feared to see who it was though deep down I already knew. I could recognize those sparkly pink heels from anywhere. I slowly walked to the washer as tears filled my eyes scared to look behind it, scared to find out. Suddenly my father rushes to me yelling “what did you do?! What did you do!” He grabbed me squeezing my arms to try to get me to talk. Confused I yelled back, “I didn’t, I, I, I didn’t” It wasn’t until then I noticed his blue jeans and dark grey shirt were stained with blood.

 Shaking, I slam the picture back into the book. I turn to see if my father had woken up, fortunately he hasn’t moved.  Rage slowly began to take over my body; I wasn’t the crazy one he was. I went back into the kitchen, open one of the wooden draws that held nothing but junk. Putting on rubber gloves I grabbed some cleaning supplies, a bucket filled with sponges, sprays, rags, and wipes, the works. I then opened the fridge and took the knife that didn’t belong there out. Our home was simple, not many objects were around making it easier to clean.
I made the initial wound right into his wind-pipe. His eyes shot open in shock while his hands covered his neck but it was too late blood had already covered him from the neck down. He opened his mouth in want but nothing came out. He could not scream; he could not talk. I continued stabbing him, over and over, it was like I could not stop for the first time I did not have control over my body, over my actions.
Forty-two, forty-two knife wounds made zig-zags up and down his torso and arms. I was quickly swimming in a pool of my father’s blood, here I was thinking he was empty inside when warm dark red blood pumped its way around, a waste, I thought. My father lies shaking, still gripping his neck it takes him great effort to breathe but somehow he gets a pattern going. He stares at me as if I were a stranger, an intruder, who sneaked in in the middle of the night to hurt him but I wasn’t here to hurt him, I only wanted to make things right, make things fair. I leaned over him, tears streamed down my face as I looked through the man who was once my world and whispered, “What did you do?”
My father was not the smallest man but with the help of the new knife set Mary got me for my birthday I managed to cut him down to a more manageable size. His organs, bones, body parts and bloody clothes fit nicely into three bags. I spent the rest of my time pouring the pounds of blood I mopped up into buckets down the drain of the sink. I was always taught to be an efficient cleaner; I scrubbed on my hands and knees wiping down every inch of the apartment. I took the three trash bags down to the dumpster; we had three in the apartment complex. I took one bag to each dumpster working fast; I remembered the garbage truck came early on Thursdays. Carefully I placed the large bloody sentiment into a container and then into the fridge not sure why I wanted to keep it fresh. Three-thirty in the morning when I finished and finally rested my head on my pillow counting down the hours until I had to be up to fight through another day. I dreamed about the love I use to have, the love he use to give and I swear I could still hear his heart beating in the fridge.

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