Everyone has a memory that they wish they could forget; a memory that haunts them every day. It can be simple, or it can be complicated. We have fears that make us tremble; dreams that seem so real, you believe they actually happened. They can change us; haunt us for the rest of our lives.
I remember headlights. They were like bright stars racing towards me. I stood there, my life briefly flashing before me. It wasn’t a marvelous life; mainly a life filled with sorrow and brief flashes of happiness mixed with pain and loss. My life had always been complicated; growing up with drug addicted and alcoholic parents served well as a complication. My never present sister offered no sympathy, always out with some new guy. Sure I’ve had my times of happiness, but that was mainly when I was by myself. There was no one there to scream; no one there to fight. It was peace at its’ greatest moment.
In the few seconds it took me to realize what was happening, I was knocked against the beaten down washing machine that was ever present outside of my trailer. A sharp flash of pain caught my attention and I looked down to see my arm caught between the trailer and the washing machine. I screamed as I saw blood smeared across the top and I tried to yank my arm free. I only succeeded in hurting myself further. Shaking, my vision started going black and I felt my body slowly start to sink to the ground with my arm still trapped in its prison. I could still feel the blood trailing down my arm and I felt the salty tears rolling down my face. I don’t really remember much after that, only the sound of my dad screaming at the cops to, “Catch that man!” as his drunken enemy raced out of the drive, my almost murderer.
The sound of beeping woke me out of my spell, and I cried out for my dad, even though I didn’t really want him. My mom was there, along with my sister, but I didn’t see my dad. A tall man came into the room and I shrank back against the pillows of the hospital bed. I remember the feeling of being so scared, of not knowing what was going on. Trouble was, I couldn’t remember anything that had happened that night, but as soon as I saw my dad, it all came rushing back.
I remembered my mom screaming, my dads’ obscenities filling the air with a violent cry. I remembered the stranger coming into the trailer, swaying in his drunken state. I remembered him rushing my dad with a broken beer bottle. At eleven, you don’t know what to do, so I rushed in between them, crying out as the stranger fell on top of me, my dad under me. I felt suffocated, his stout body crushing mine. I remembered the fear that raced through my body as he raised his hand, the gleaming edge of the broken bottle poised for slaughter. I froze, my mouth opening for a scream as he brought his hand down to stab my dad, but missed and caught my hand, which had raised to block the blow. My mom was screaming louder now, pummeling the stranger as she realized where I was.
He finally rose, and staggered out the door. I rolled off my dad, whose eyes were red with rage. I wanted to reach out to him, to calm him, but when I raised my hand and saw the blood, I cried out. He jumped up and grabbed a walking stick; it wasn’t an ordinary walking stick, it was made out of oak and intricately carved with patterns and jewels. My dad had been working on it for months. Those months flew out the window as he snapped it across his thigh, breaking it in half. He turned and ran out the back door and I screamed, jumping up and stumbling out the front door. The roar of an engine caught my attention and I turned just in time to see the stranger spin out and back into the steep ditch.
My dad came flying around the corner, the stick raised high as he brought it down onto the drivers’ side window. It shattered, and crumbled to the ground. Blood poured from the strangers ear, and I screamed, the pain in my hand forgotten as I rushed towards my dad, desperate to stop him. The mans’ tires where still grasping for contact with the ground, trying to get a grip to set him out of his predicament. My dad stood there, staring at me then turned towards the man. He asked if he needed help, and the man said yes. My dad shook his head, took a deep breath and turned to walk towards his truck. I sighed with relief and turned to follow him. I had barely walked more than three steps when I heard the tires catch and turned to see the lights.
We all have memories we wish we could forget. December 24, 2004 is the night I wish I could forget.
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