The Glassese Left in the Fire

April 22, 2008

Chapter Eight

-The Forgetful Truth-

[The last time he had worn his glasses, was the night he died. I don’t remember that night clearly, but I have these flashes, these vague memories of what happened. I could picture his smile, his thinning grey hair, and, his glasses; especially his glasses. It’s weird how I remember this, but it’s one of the memories of him that I can make clear.

The night of the fire has stuck with me all these years, and as I sit in the corner with my knees pressed against my chest, I search through these memories of him, in search of comfort. My feelings for him are still yet unclear. I loved my grandfather, but after that night, I honestly don’t know anymore. What he did, and to whom. His actions seem unforgivable, but the grandfather that I knew would not do such a thing to his own daughter, the night of the fire; that night, my mother died.]

Chapter Nine
-The Real Truth-

Everything is confusing. I don’t know where I stand with my grandfather. How can I possibly ever forgive him for what he’s done to me? I was only a child when it happened, but yet, it all seems so real. I’ve been lied to my whole life, never knowing what really happened to my mother. But how is this honestly of any importance right now. I’m sitting here, all by myself; my thoughts and emotions are uncontrollable. The darkness in the van feels cold, as if no hope or light could survive.

I should have stayed home. I should not have run off like I did. When my father told me the truth, I felt vulnerable; I wasn’t thinking. When I found out that my mother had not died in a car accident, and the truth of the death she actually endured, I felt betrayed; lied to. I was broken inside and no one seemed to care. And now I find myself unsure of my surroundings.

When I was tossed into this van, I felt like my life was thrown away, like a piece of garbage paid no mind to. I have no idea as to where I’m at, and it doesn’t seem to matter. The feelings that I feel I have never felt. The ferocity of anger with my father for lying to me all these years, and my uncertainty with my grandfather, I don’t know what to do. All I remember is running down the street, being grabbed from behind, and thrown into this van. When I hit the cold metal floor of the back of the van, I hit my head, and everything turned to black.

I’m in a room unfamiliar to me. It’s dark, and I can’t make out much. Ahead of me is a door with light seeping through the cracks. I step closer. I hear a noise and turn around abruptly; nothing. The smell of the air has a hint of smoke present, triggering my memories of the night of the fire my granddad died. Floorboards creak in agony as I progress towards the door. The detail in the door comes to view; a mural of a burning house. I reach for the door, but stutter. I step backwards, thinking what am I doing, is this safe? Scanning the door again, I notice something that wasn’t there before. Written in what appears to be blood is, “The truth awaits ahead.” Turning the door knob, the thought of what the statement meant ran though my head. I pull the door open, and smoke pours out.

Pulling the bottom of my shirt up to cover my mouth and using my other hand to bat the smoke away in front of my eyes, I step through the door. Through the smoke I see red light and feel a wave of heat. I stand frozen, unable to move, unable to think. What is this, where am I? If only I could go home and be with my father. I’d apologize for acting cold and stubborn and throw myself into his arms and embrace his familiar scent.

Still standing where my feet froze, the smoke starts to clear. My feet free up and I’m suddenly rushed through time to the base of a burning warehouse. The heat is scorching, almost unbearable. Sweat starts to accumulate on my forehead and a feeling a weakness starts to accommodate itself. I feel tired, like gravity is pushing down on me. My breath starts to weaken. My knees buckle; I collapse.

I wake up in a dark room, laying on the floor. I get up and realize I can’t see much of anything. It’s black; lifeless. Hearing a noise, I turn around and see my grandfather hovering over my mother. He’s crying and he has his hands crossed over each other and placed over her chest. He doesn’t move. Blood is continually accumulating on the floor beside my mother. My grandfather relaxes his hands upon my mother’s chest and brings them up to his face. Dripping from his hands is the blood of my mother. All of a sudden my granddad drops and his glasses fall from his face and slide across the floor feet from his dying body. I follow the movement of the glasses. My grandfather’s blood soon follows the route his glasses took and circles around where they lay. My eyes start to focus on his glasses. In the fractured lens of his glasses, I see a glint of steel and the reflection of a familiar face hovering over the two dieing bodies, a face I have seen everyday and grown to love; the face of my father.

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