anbwrites

Posts Tagged ‘random

I deeply regretted faking an injury during gym class in school, because now, I could barely breathe while I was running down the sidewalk.  My lungs, and not to mention every muscle in my body, were on fire.  It felt like nitroglycerin was being pumped into my veins and into my muscular tissue.

Everyone on the street stared at me like I was a lunatic, and perhaps I was.  Three abnormally large dogs, all of which looked like mutant Dobermans, were currently chasing me.  They were barking and growling, and I resisted the urge to look back.

“Watch it, lady!” Someone shouted.

“Excuse me, sorry!”  I shouted at a stranger after I physically pushed them out of my way in order to run down an alley.  There had to be somewhere to hide.  A dumpster, maybe?

I looked around as I sprinted down the alley, yet no dumpsters were available for my hiding purposes.  I did, however, find an old iron ladder attached to the side of a brick wall, leading to the rooftop of the building.  I looked behind me and saw the dogs, their eyes red and wild, and screamed as they launched toward me at full speed.  I jumped up to catch onto the ladder’s rail-like steps.

I hurried upward until I heard a screeching sound and felt the ladder sink back down a few inches.

“No, no, no!  Come on, I’m not that heavy!”  I screamed, to no one in particular, as the lightweight frame resisted supporting me.

The dogs below jumped up and violently gnashed their teeth, all of them barking so loudly that it began to hurt my ears.  The ladder continued to wiggle and weaken with my weight, and I prepared for it to give way completely. 

Boom!  Boom!  Boom!

I heard gunshots within a few feet of me, followed by the dogs yipping and howling.  They ran off down the alley until disappearing into thin air.  I looked around, feeling slightly disillusioned.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, running from Hell Hounds?”

I looked up to see a man leaning over the edge of the rooftop above me, blinking a few times.  “What?”

He rolled his eyes.  “Hell Hounds, you dunce.  Those things that were just chasing you and about to drag you to Hell.”

I laughed and carefully descended back down to the ground.  “Right, okay Mr. Crazy.  Those were just dogs.  Albeit abnormally large, they were just normal dogs, nonetheless.”  I brushed my dirty palms against my jeans and looked up again, yet the guy was no longer there.

“Right, because normal dogs usually have red eyes,” a voice whispered behind me, causing me to jump.

I spun around and met a pair of narrowed gray eyes, which not only seemed to study me, but also seemed to be criticizing me.  “Blame rabies.”

“Normal dogs don’t run away that easily after being shot.”  He held up a large rifle in one hand, the other messing with his shaggy mop of light brown hair.  “Come on, Ellie, this detour has made us late,” he grabbed my wrist and yanked me forward, my head accidentally bumping into his shoulder.

I screamed and pulled away from him and tried to pry his fingers off of my arm.  “What?  No!  Let go of me!  Stop!”

He groaned and tightened his grasp.  “You have the strength of a newborn kitten compared to me.  Stop shouting, you’ll look crazy.”

I continued to fight and shout at the top of my lungs.  “No, people will see that I’m being whisked away by some strange guy with a gun!  Help, somebody!  Let go of me!”

“People will see?”  He threw his head back and laughed as he dragged me toward the dead end of the alley.  “Nobody but you can see me.  That’s why nobody helped you out with the Hell Hounds; they just thought you were some college kid tripping on LSD.”

“LET GO!”  I kicked the back of his leg behind his knee, which startled him and made him loosen his grip enough in order for me to wiggle free.  I ran away from him toward the street, my heart beating rapidly.  I looked back to see how close he was to catching me, yet I ran straight into someone’s chest.

His hands grabbed me tightly by the shoulders.  “We could have done this the easy way, Ellie.  But you’re like your mother; completely stubborn.”  He placed his fingertips against my forehead, and I slowly felt myself fade into unconsciousness. 

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     “These memories keep haunting me,” she whispered, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees.  “I can go a long time without thinking about it once, but when something triggers me strongly enough, it’s all over.”

     He nodded as he took thoughtful notes on his legal pad.  “Tell me about this trigger you had, Samantha.”

     “There was an old guy, with a beard,” she rubbed her eyes as they began to fill with tears.  “He had on a USMC hat, and a flannel jacket.  It looked just like him, Dr. Schorr.  I could’ve sworn…  Some part of me thought it was him, and I wanted it to be.  I’m always hoping he’ll be there in his chair, drinking coffee, and watching Nascar when I come home, but he’s never there.”

     “Samantha, your dad died a year ago.  He isn’t coming back, and it’s best that you realize this and move forward with the grieving process.”

     She shook her head.  “I can’t!  I can’t grieve him or mourn him; that isn’t what he wanted!  I can’t feel sad, and I’m told that I should just be happy that he was here for 18 years when some people don’t even have a dad for one, but I can’t help it!  It’s like, seriously, I’m sorry that you never had a dad that was around for whatever reason, but I did, and just because you didn’t have one doesn’t mean that I’m not allowed to miss mine!”  She stood up and pushed over the coffee table that was between their chairs.  “I’m losing my mind!  I feel like he just died yesterday, that he is still alive today, and that he never even existed all at once!  I have this raw ache in my chest that I can’t fill back up.  I don’t care about the whole God thing and Him supposedly being the only thing that can fill this hole in my chest, because it doesn’t work!

     I don’t want God, I don’t want a fucking psychiatrist and mom up my ass 24/7, and I don’t want people saying ‘I’m sorry,’!  I know you’re fucking sorry, but guess what, sorry doesn’t do anything!  Do you know what I do want, doctor?  I want my dad back.  I want my dad, I want my damn father back, alive, well, happy, healthy, and I want him here to hug me and make us pancakes and bacon on Sunday morning, and I just want him back!  I-I need him, I can’t keep living without my daddy…”

I haven’t had much experience, when it comes to physical intimacy.  Sure, I’ve kissed maybe four guys, and made out with a few, but it was never quite… There.  That spark wasn’t there, and those butterflies that I’m told I should feel were basically dead in the pit of my stomach.  All I would think about when kissing these guys would be anything but them.  I’d think about lunch, how I chipped my nail polish too much and needed to make plans to repaint them, etc.  I wasn’t drawn to them in any way, shape, or form.  But him?  

He’s a different story.  Whenever we kissed, the previously deceased butterflies were resurrected and fluttered through every vein in my body.  It was like my mind was no longer in control of my actions, and I was simply running on this raw need and hunger to kiss him until we somehow melted into each other on those hot summer nights.

I never considered myself to be a particularly rebellious person.  In fact, I always thought I was rather innocent.  But with him, it’s going to be pretty hard to play by the rules.

Turning twenty is probably exciting for most people. As for me, I wasn’t particularly enthused about still being alive.
I know it’s morbid, and awful, but there have been quite a few times where I really had just wanted to die. I didn’t have the courage, though, to take my life, and I try not to be selfish. Although I feel as if I’m hardwired with guilt just due to my existence alone, I’m frequently told how much I’m loved and cared about, and that these people would be heartbroken, were anything to happen to me.
I don’t believe them, though.
There are many people that are dead right now that deserve to be alive, and many people are alive that deserve to be dead, or worse, being beaten on a daily basis in prison due to crimes against children and animals. There is a special place reserved in hell for those kinds of people, in my opinion, along with the creators of the APA format.
I hope you all perish, due to the hell I’ve suffered in college, thanks to that damn format.
I probably sound cruel, but I don’t mean to. I don’t consider myself a mean person. In fact, I think I’m quite kind. Except when it comes to certain matters. I can have a harsh sense of humor, I laugh at times when it is most inappropriate, and I avoid seeing my grandpa at his nursing home at all costs.
I feel awful about it, honestly, but the pain that that place brings me is almost as bad as other pain I’ve felt. I cannot look at my grandpa’s face without thinking of his son: my dad, and how an 87 year old man is still alive, yet my dad didn’t see age 53, thanks to cancer.
For the record, I call it The Big C. It’s just easier, and sounds less threatening.
My mom tried to get me to see my grandpa often after my dad died, especially before I went off to college, but I couldn’t. The simple thought of seeing him in a tiny little room, wasting away all lonely, with spots of evolving melanoma on his face, made me feel like my heart was being crushed by John Cena or some insanely strong bodybuilder.
I can’t see him like that, because it hurts. I realize that he is probably hurting, too, and that it’s a lot worse for him than it is for me, but this is where my selfishness weasels into the picture. This 87 year old Marine, WWII veteran with a heart of gold and a feisty personality, has lived longer than his son, and has lost two wives; both to cancer. Now, he has a daughter-in-law, my mom, who sees him when she can.
But he is old and confused, and asks many questions which stresses her out, and she’s already ended up in the hospital due to the health problems that plain stress has caused her. She tries, though, which is more than I can say for myself.
And he has me, a granddaughter, who refuses to see him, because I’m afraid and I hate feeling sad and broken, although I feel that way quite often.
On a side note, I have not yet written a will, and if this story of mine is found before I get the chance and I am older than 50 years old, please just put me out to pasture, as my dad would say. I hear people say, especially couples, that they dream of growing old together, being in rocking chairs on a porch, reminiscing about their old times. And then, they die. Romantic? No. More like unrealistic.
That never happens. Someone always dies first. With my grandpa, it was both of his wives. With my grandma on my dad’s side from his first marriage, it was her husband. With my grandma on my mom’s side, her husband died first. And a year ago, with my mom, my dad bit the big one from The Big C.
I don’t happen to believe in romance, or love. I believe that the only love that truly ever existed that I’ve been able to see with my own eyes was the love my mom and my dad shared.
It’s true when they say that love doesn’t die, even though a person does. If anyone says otherwise, they are either lying, or they did not have true love. The love stays with you like some kind of patronizing plague, that slowly makes you rot on the inside. It eats away at your sanity and your heart like a parasite. It’s a tragic and horrific pain to experience, and isn’t beautiful, like some might claim.
Love doesn’t die, like I said, even though people do. And when people that you love die, it brings pain. So, the simplest solution in my opinion is to not love at all. I know, “It is better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all,” but I believe that to be complete bullshit.
I prefer to avoid pain at all costs, and have gone to extreme lengths to do so. But pain is like a stalker and just waits for you to be alone. You can try to escape it all you want, but once that temporary relief goes away, pain is right there with its creepy smile and a switchblade, ready to do some more damage.