View Full Version : My story

03-27-06, 08:08 PM
So, I figured this was the creative writing section and I'd post a story I've started working on writing. Here it is so far..

My brother and were sitting in my room. We were talking about old times, I was playing my guitar as usual and he was listening. We were talking about my Dad’s divorce with his wife and the impending custody battle of our six-month-old-half-sister.

“Hey, what do you think is going to happen with Christine and stuff?” I ask.

“I don’t know.” My brother answers with his usual insight.

“Do you think Dad won’t get custody of Christine?”

“I don’t know”

I am beginning to get frustrated with my brother, but I also understand his reasons for his indecision. My Dad’s wife has heard about my Dad’s past problems with raising us and is trying to use that against him to get custody of our sister.

It’s funny how time can change things, mostly people. I was the first born. From that day on my Dad and I were inseparable. We’d go everywhere, do everything – together. Sixteen months later, my brother was born – March 19th, 1977. My Dad and I were still inseparable. Things remained that way until my sister was born.

“Hey! That sounded neat.” My brother shouts at me as he interrupts my thinking.


“What you just played it sounded cool.”

“Oh? I forgot what I was playing – I was thinking about something else.”

“I think he might lose.”

“Huh? Oh, Dad?” amazed that I had actually gotten an answer, “Why do you say that?” I ask inquiring for more.

“Just because … Well… You know… More than anyone.”

“Yeah. I guess I do.” I continued pounding away at my guitar; back into thought.

My brother was right – I do know. Sometimes I wish I didn’t, but I do.

It happened during the remodel of our house. My Dad is an engineer, so of course he thought he could build it himself – and cheaper. My brother and I, both being about the age of twelve and thirteen, we’re enlisted to help.

Our house was huge. It was a two story house; it had a balcony, two master bedrooms, three other bedrooms, and four bathrooms. The plan was to extend the house forward about four feet. We had already torn out half of the stair case, torn up the tile down stairs, and a worker was jack-hammering the remaining concrete in the entry way exposing all the rebar holding the concrete together.

I had moved on to the rest of the entry way which was not torn up and was removing the last of the ceramic tiles. My brother was upstairs, in his room, studying – I never understood why he liked it.

“Brian get down here! Now!”

Brian came down the portion of the staircase we had left and was standing on the landing, looking down at the ladder that was the other half of our staircase, he then said, “What Dad? I’m doing my homework.”

“I don’t care, get down here! Now!”

“But Dad, I have to…” my brother leaned over to climb down the ladder. My Father, then lunged up and grabbed a handful of hair and pulled him down. Still holding on to his hair, my Father, dragged him outside. He dragged him over the remains of the tile, over jack-hammered concreate and metal bars sticking out every way of the entry way. My Father dragged his prey out the front door; he then released his talons, and went in for the kill.

“Two more tiles. “ I thought as I turned away from the picture framed in my doorway.

I fumbled. Momentarily I had forgotten how to play my guitar. I stopped and looked at my brother for a moment, smiled and continued to play.

“Hey, Kevin, what are you going to say to the forensic psychologist.”

“I don’t know.” It was my turn to evade questioning.

“Me neither. I mean, what can I say, I don’t want to speak badly about him, but Christine, if he doesn’t get her, we loose a sister. I mean, well, I don’t know.”

“Yeah. I don’t know either.” I paused for a minute then I said, “It would be nice to have a little sister, twenty years younger and all. Hey! I could teach her how to play guitar!”

It would be nice to have another younger sister. I could her things my Dad and his wife would leave out. But my Dad might not get to ever see his daughter again – my sister.

What could I say to the psychologist. The accusations that his wife was making about my Father physically abusing us were true. I was about thirteen and life for me was the hardest then. My Father couldn’t deal with loud noise: loud noise from children. Ususally, I would wander around the house singing and shouting – being silly – I enjoyed it. My Father didn’t find any amusement in my fun. He decided he had some work for me to do. He wanted me to mow the lawn of the our uneven backyard; using a push mower. At first, I didn’t want to do it, but then I thought I’ll be like the older kids if I do – I was excited at that point. I got the lawn mower and took it out back.

It was an ancient piece of machinery. It looked as if it hadn’t been used in over twenty years. Most of the metal pieces had rust on it; so much that you could chip it away.

My Father had given me about fifteen minutes to do this chore because he had already lined up another one for me.

I tried to push the rustic piece of machinery, but it wouldn’t budge. I kept trying, but I wasn’t strong enough. I then began to complain out of frustration – I should’ve held my tongue.

My Father hearing this came outside with his favorite saying, “I’ll give you something to cry about.”

He grabbed the handle of some tool, it was about the same length and thickness of a baton, he swung it at me, and I fell to the ground as I tripped over the uneven grass while trying to flee from my attacker. I covered my head pleading for him to stop – he didn’t. As quickly as it started, he stopped. Amazingly, I didn’t break a rib or one of my arms, I thought to myself then I looked around to see why the attack had stopped so suddenly. My Mom heard my screams and had come running. My Father then turned towards her, she was standing in the doorway.

“Hey! Hey! You’re playing it again!” yells my brother.

“Oh, you mean that song I keep playing and you keep making me forget by yelling at me every time I play it!?”

“Oh yeah, that one.”

I just roll my eyes and continue playing.

“Hey, Kev, when are you going to teach me to play guitar like you?”

“I don’t know, whenever you got time. How about now?” I ask.

“I can’t. I’m going to go rock climbing, you want to come?”

“Hmm.. Nah, I think I’ll just sit here and play guitar for awhile.”

“Ok, see ya later.”

“See ya.”

I continue playing guitar as my brother waslks out of the room, I start to think about al lthe things we were put through as kids: rejected, beaten, and dragged out of our home like criminals – the hostility. It was rough being a kid in my house. Our thoughts, opinions, and ideas meant nothing to our Father. I’m a musician, and not to be able to express myself was torturous. I stuffed everything into a songbook in my head, the music I play from there is about people, things, and events: Things that are important to me, things that happened, they are all in my songbook.

I stand up in darkness. The wind blows through the room with an icy chill. I set my guitar on its stand and head towards the door.

“Kevin! Hey Kevin!” my Mom yells.

“What!” I respond – irritated.

“We are going to see Christine, you coming?”

“No. I’ve got things to do.”

“Ok, Bye!” she says as they leave with the rest of my family. I close my door, lay down and fall asleep.

“You going to school today?!?” my Mom yells.

“What?!?” I overslept. “Yeah, yeah. Hold on.” I jump out of bed, hurrying to get dressed for school, I put on some random clothes, grab my bag and guitar, and head out the front door.

It’s raining when I get to school – I’m late. Iget out of the car; my bag slung over my shoulder, guitar in my hand and I head off towards class.

On my way to class, Anthony walks over to me and gives me a hug.

“What’s up?” I say.

Anthony with his eyes focused to the ground says, “Nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

Curious. I head to class just as the tardy bell rings. “I’m late. Again.” I say in frustration. I open the door to my class – its silent.

“Duane.” I ask , “What’s going on?”

“Someone in the class diead at school yesterday…”

I wake up in a sweat. I pickup my guitar and begin to play. The music wakes my brother in the room across the hall.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks irritated.


“You woke me up! It’s two in the morning!”


“What was that you were playing?”

“Just a song I wrote a second ago.” I answer.

“It was cool, even though, you woke me up.”

My brother sits down on the bed. I have my back to him, still holding my guitar. I start playing again.

“You’re up?” I say, “How come?”

“I don’t know. I have to go talk to that guy tomorrow.”

“Oh, the shrink.”


“Hey did you hear?”

“What?” Brian says.

“Christine said her first word the other day.”

“Oh, yeah, what was it?”


“Cool.” Then there is a long pause. The only sound heard is music from the guitar. Brian is starting at the window, then he lays down with a sigh.

“It’ll be good.” I stop playing guitar to listen. ‘It’ll be good for Christine to have a Dad.”


“It’s too bad.”

“Too bad?”

“Well, you know..”

“Yeah.” I know. I start to play my guitar again.

Our Father is a work-a-holic. That’s all he ever does – the only thing he wanted to do – everything else is incidental. He is an electronic engineer. We always have all kinds of electronic equipment around the house.

We would follow our Father around the house; checking out the gadgets he had to play with.

He had all these alligator clips, resistors, transistors, components of every size and shape, circuit boards, and more – you name it, he probably had it there.

He was moving a new machine into the garage. Brain and I ran over to see it.

It was huge. It had a tabletop with a keyboard built into it. There were rows of buttons and another row of strange look knobs. There was a group of dials next to the video screen and a joystick to the right.

It was my Father’s new toy. He sat down at the console and started fiddling with the buttons and knobs.

Brian and I are barely tall enough to reach over the counter. I wanted to see more. Using my Father as a stepladder, grabbing onto his clothing, I climb up onto his lap; I can see! I see all the flashing lights and a joystick – It’s a game! Thrusting my hand forward trying to play with it there is a sharp pain as I get slapped.

“Don’t touch!” My Father says as I begin to cry. My Mom hearing me comes out to the garage.

“What’s wrong with Kevin?” She asks.

“He’s just upset because I won’t let him break the machine.”

“He’s not going to break it,” she says, “Why don’t you teach him how it works?”

“He won’t understand, anyway, what do you know?”

“I know he just wants to know what you are doing and to be with you.”

He stands, sets me on the ground, and turns toward her, “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“I don’t have to listen to this.” My Mom then turns and leaves the room.

“Hey! I’m not through talking to you. Get back here!” He storms after her.

Brian and I started playing with the machinery. We could hear our parents arguing in the other room. We could hear the shouting. Then we heard the shouting turning to screams which quickly became pleading. Brian and I ran to see what was going on.

Our Father had a broomstick in his hand, he was shouting at our Mom. She was begging him to put it down. He then swung it. Again. Again.

I hadn’t noticed Brian had left until he came back with one of our little red toy blocks with the letter “A” print in the plastic.

“You had better stop hurting Mommy or I’ll… I’ll throw this at you.” Brian said with his arm poised to toss the block.

Our Father stopped mid-swing, “You are going to do what? I’d like to see you try.”

Brian turned and ran. I stood there staring. In shock.

“What? Do you want some too?” He said waving the broom at me.

“What are you two doing!? You are going to wake up the whole house!” We had woken up the one that mattered – Mom.

“Kevin’s playing guitar.” My brother answers.

“I can see that.” She says to Brian, “Kevin, Stop.”


“Stop playing your guitar. It is 2 am.”

“Oh. Ok. Good Night, Mom.” I stand up and give Mom a hug then shuffle her out of my room. “You’re right I need to sleep, I mean, I was just practicing because I have a concert tomorrow and all, but I’ll stop, I was just nervous, but yeah I should really sleep. Good Night Mom.” I say as I effectively talk our way out of trouble.

“Good night.” She says as she leaves.”

“You know you shouldn’t play your guitar at night, you’re going to get it taken away one of these days Kevin.” Advises my brother.

“No one better touch my guitar, or that is the last thing they’ll touch.” I said firmly.

“Well, whatever Kevin, I’m going to bed. Good night.”

“Alright, I’ll talk to you later.” I said as I put my guitar away.

Today is the day. The day that I have to speak with the forensive psychologist. What am I going to say? I don’t to lie, I just can’t lie. What is the price of the truth? What about my sister? Will I ever be able to see her again? I don’t know. I really wish I wasn’t caught in the middle of this, I’m always in the middle. (major theme with this character).

The only good thing about this day is that I get a day off of school, then again school would have been the lesser torture to chose. I get to the office at 10:00 am sharp. I walk in and my Dad is sitting there. He walks over to me and gives me a hug, asks me how I am doing. I answer, “Ok.” Then have a seat and pick up a magazine.

I can tell my Father is putting on a show, he rarely shows public affection towards anyone, let alone – me. Anyway, what does he care how “I” am doing? Since when.

The psychologist finally arrives and he steps out into the waiting room and greets me. I follow him back into his office. The door closes.

Phew! That was a stressful 45 minutes of my life that I’ll never get back. I step out of the office and my Dad stands up and asks me how I am doing again – What is going on!? This never happens. Since when did he care? That’s right, he doesn’t – it’s the money that’s at stake – that’s why my Father seems to care.