The Regular Writing Rampage

Prologue

“Sam, where have you been, it’s 3 a.m.!! You know, you’re not fooling anyone when you say you’re ‘working late.’ You have a serious problem, and it’s not going to go away until you admit it and get help!! If you can’t do it for me, at least do it for Hope!! Come on, think of your daughter, you love her, don’t you?!”
“It’s okay, baby, c’mere, ev’rything’s okay, ev’rything’s fine”
“No, it’s not fine. You’re drunk again, Sam. Do you really want our little girl thinking it’s normal to see her daddy come home drunk every night? Please, stop drinking, for her sake!!”
“Shut up, bitch!!!”
“Sam, please!!!”
SMASH!!!!

*************

Hope

My parents’ angry words echoed over and over in my beleaguered mind, sending a jolt of nausea straight down to the pit of my stomach. Despite what every single self-help pamphlet I had been force-fed over the years had tried to make me believe, these words were as painful now as they had been thirteen years earlier, when they had shattered my three-year-old world forever. A thin layer of perspiration covered my flushed skin, matting my hair against my forehead, and causing my flannel pajamas to stick to my body, as if they didn’t fit me. My sheets and bedspread had been knocked onto the floor, and somehow twisted into a rumpled knot that was as complicated as my emotions.

Unable to sleep now, I rolled out of bed, grabbed a flashlight, and stumbled across my darkened bedroom. Slowly, painstakingly, I lifted the corner of my Frodo centrefold, to reveal the hole in the drywall, forged by the intoxicated fist of my otherwise loving father. If only he knew how much I missed him....Daddy, I know it’s not your fault. I just want to see you, wherever you are. Why can’t we be a real family again? I clicked the switch of my flashlight, and shone the thin, glaring white beam into the hole, illuminating my shrine to him, a cheerful jumble of paraphernalia from happier times. Gently, as if afraid it would break, I picked up a photo of us, side by side on the Ferris wheel at the local amusement park, grinning ear to ear, about to be carried up, up, towards the dazzling blue sky, as high as our spirits were on that beautiful afternoon.

But just as suddenly as we had risen, the divine forces of the gigantic, mechanized steel carnival ride had plunged us downward, away from euphoria, into the milling, sweating crowd, of children screaming and begging their parents for candy, trinkets, and game tokens, of homeless people panhandling for change, of seedy carnival workers urging one and all to “Step right up!!!” and hand over their money, for the privilege of attempting to win gaudy, oversized stuffed animals that stared blankly back, through their painted plastic eyes. And now it felt as if my life was the same way. I’d hope, and wish, and pray for my father to come back, only to be sorely disappointed, time and again, with every unanswered letter, every unheeded prayer, every time I awoke from a blissful fantasy of being reunited, only to find out I was dreaming. Silently, yet with all the force I could summon, I cried out, hoping fervently that someone could hear me:

Please, somebody, help!!! Stop the ride, I wanna get off now!!! I wanna get off!!! Isn’t anyone listening to me?!?!

***********

Ophelia

I try to be a good mother, I really do. But how do you tell your little girl that her father’s in jail? Every time I looked into those big, trusting blue eyes of hers, I froze, knowing that, if I told, I’d forever sully my daughter’s few, yet vivid, memories of the good times, when her daddy was her hero, her best friend, her shoulder to cry on, her horsey, her everything.
At age three, she was obviously too young to know. Age five, well, I just couldn’t saddle her with the burden of being the only “criminal’s kid” in her kindergarten class. Age ten, my motives were admittedly selfish. I saw my little Hope on the cusp of womanhood, returning from summer camp laden with gimp bracelets, dream catchers, and a huge, colourful scrapbook of all the fun times she’d had with her new friends, playing and laughing under the glowing caress of the sun’s rays, splashing in the glimmering cobalt lake, and playing nighttime hide-and-seek among the shadows of the clusters of aged pine trees, her trademark smile flashing at me from every snapshot. I knew in my heart that she was still the same Hope, but she had changed. She was a good two inches taller now, and I could see tiny breasts beginning to pad her once-scrawny frame, under her treasured Strawberry Shortcake T-shirt. Her fingernails, which used to be bitten ragged, had grown back, and had been painted blood-red, as if they belonged to a wealthy lady at a cocktail party, in the kind of extravagant fantasy world into which I can only enjoy the most fleeting glimpses, $1.99 for three nights from the Movie Mart across the street.
Her personality had changed now, too. She no longer wanted to be mommy’s little angel, and when I ran to hug her after she said goodbye to the other girls, she sullenly pulled away…..away, where she’s stayed ever since, leaving me here, clutching her final remaining shred of innocence in the deepest recesses of my heart.

***********

Hope


Why won’t my mother just be honest? Whenever I look at her, I know she’s hiding something from me. It’s like in a movie, where the money, statue, priceless artifact, or similar treasure, is guarded by an electronic forcefield, with enough voltage to violently catapult any intruder into the wall, and leave them to writhe on the floor, crumpled in pain. But the forcefield of my mother’s demeanour is guarding the most valuable treasure of all: the truth.

“Hope, dinner!!!” my mother’s phony, too-cheerful voice rang out from the kitchen. With a resigned sigh, I put down my journal, stuck the pen behind my ear, and trudged downstairs to join my mother in the kitchen. We sat across from each other at the scratched, scuffed, secondhand oak table, poking at plates of ramen noodles, me spouting automatic answers to her annoying motherly questions about school, friends, boys, and all the unimportant stuff which, because of her, I didn’t have the luxury of thinking about. There we were, three feet away from one another, yet miles apart.

Suddenly, to my surprise as much as my mother’s, I heard my own voice timidly form three simple words; one simple question, that sent my mother’s fork clattering down on her plate, and the shattered remains of her modern-day June Cleaver façade crashing down on me.
“Mom, where’s Dad?”

CRASH!!! “Hope, how dare you ask something like that? Don’t you appreciate all I’ve done for you? I’ve put food on the table, clothes on your back, and a roof over your head, all by myself. If you knew how hard it was for me, supporting the both of us on a cashier’s paycheque, you wouldn’t be so ungrateful!!!”

“But Mom—“
“No buts, missy!! Go to your room!!”
A white-hot ball of anger seethed inside me, but I silenced it, and quietly padded back up the stairs to my bedroom. Out of habit, I picked up my guitar, flopped down on my bed, lackadaisically strummed my favourite song, a soulful little tune I’d written myself, and just let my mind wander. Between chords, I could hear the faint sound of wracked, muffled sobs coming from the kitchen. Serves you right, bitch.

************

Sam

I’m so sorry. Oh God, I’m so sorry....if only my baby could see me now. Does she even know where I am? Why did that bitch take her away from me? Oh, God I love my little girl, if only she knew. I light up a smoke, my third since yesterday when I swore I’d quit, and flick on the tube. Click….click……Just static. Forgot to pay the cable bill again. Oh well. I drag myself up off the stained, cigarette-burned mattress, back onto my feet, and kick the empty beer bottles and discarded pizza box, still encrusted with congealed processed cheese, out of my way. Where is it? There it is. Surfside Sluts. It’s not much, but maybe it’ll take my mind off things. I stick it in, press play, make myself comfy on the mattress. A chick with big ol’ blue eyes and long blonde hair stares at me, provocatively, begging me to touch what’s under her practically nonexistent hot-pink bikini, as she slowly unties her halter top and trails her hand downstairs. Oh my God, she’s not much older than Hope would be now…..Click. Off. s***….I don’t feel too good.

My reflection gazes back at me in the grimy bathroom mirror. Beer stains on my grubby undershirt, five days worth of stubble on my face, five years worth of flab spilling over my Homer Simpson boxers. No pants, no chance, no wife, no life, no Hope, no future. I thought things would pick up once I got outta the big house, but no. Same f***ing s*** ev’ry day. I don’t even have no car no more, on account of I got plastered last month and crashed my ’82 Volkswagen Rabbit into a tree. A car is like a wife. You gotta treat it good or it’ll quit on you. I found that out the hard way, twice.

I stumble outta the bathroom and go check the mail. What is this s*** they keep sending me? A stack of bills, an ad for a dating service…..hello, what’s this? A plain white flyer with soft mauve writing catches my eye, from among the screaming neon ads. Lost? Confused? Want to get your life together? Call now! I look up from the flyer for a second and take a gander around my apartment, at the yellowed walls, the cigarette butts littering the threadbare carpet, the empties, the stinky pizza box, the porno movies, the whole goddam s***ty life I’ve created for myself.

************

Ophelia

Everything seems like a good idea at the time, especially when you’re seventeen, and especially when the “big man on campus” looks past the gaggle of bubbly, lemming-like cheerleaders and asks you, the soulful, poetic girl with the raven-black hair, lips, dresses, and worldviews, to go to the prom with him. But he did, and I did, so here I am.

Rrriiinngg!!! The shrill, peremptory sound of the school bell cut into my daydream, like a chainsaw, signalling the end of my second period biology class. I gathered my books and my purse, and quietly shuffled my way towards the door, as invisible as the shadows cast by the more exuberant students, eager to meet up with friends, grab a smoke, head downtown, and make the most of their seventy-five minutes of freedom before their next class. Bump…shove……oww!!! “Hey, can’t you guys watch where you’re going?”
“Ooh, look, she talks!!!” sneered a stocky, rough-looking boy in a leather jacket, whom I knew by sight, but not by name.
“Hey, leave her alone. What’s she ever done to ya?” I turned around, to find myself face to face with another boy, quite different from the one who had harassed me, tall and muscular, with his easygoing face, sparkling sapphire eyes, and golden-blonde hair. He laid a protective arm around my diminutive shoulders and led me away from the rabble of ignorami, to a secluded spot under a tree in the grassy courtyard.
“Ophelia, right? I’m Sam. Listen, don’t let those jerks bother you, I think you’re pretty cool.”

Nobody else knew, but we were both pretty needy at the time. He needed help with English, I needed some solace from my home life, where my parents projected their dissatisfaction with my “abnormalities” all over my thighs, my back, my stomach, and lately, my face, where I masqueraded my bruises with a thick layer of pale foundation make-up, and my feelings with a steely, mysterious, unchanging expression. But his dazzling smile was a ray of sunlight in the dark, dismal existence in which I was trapped, and his comforting words, formed by his deep, kindly voice, wrapped around me, warming me like the patchwork quilt my late grandmother had made for me when I was too young to remember. So I let him into my life, and spent more and more time at his house, staying long after I’d finished helping him string together strong paragraphs into convincing essays, which earned Sam approval from his teacher, and me a sense of purpose in life. We talked about anything and everything; movies, books, school, and who was hooking up with whom, but we never felt the need to talk about us. Until one Saturday afternoon, when we were sitting on the couch in his basement, playing Pac-Man, and he asked the question that would change both of our lives forever.
“Hey, Ofe, wanna go to the prom with me?”
“Sure, that’d be great!” I was astounded, yet so happy, that Sam saw me as more than a friend. I put down my joystick and looked over at him, and was instantly lost in his eyes, which were like swirling, icy pools of water on a July afternoon, begging me to shake off the sticky, sweltering heat of the day and plunge in.
And I did. We both did.

Nine months later, after many fights, tears, slammed doors, and bruises, my child came into the world, an angelic little girl, with hair and eyes just like her father’s. Sam and I were only eighteen then, and we knew that the road ahead would be rough. We would never get to go to university, and moving back home wasn’t an option for either of us. So we pooled what little money we had, mine from babysitting, his from his part-time job at the record store, applied for social assistance, purchased a run-down split-level, and quietly got married. And we named our daughter Hope.

What I didn’t know at the time was, when Hope was born, the Sam I had always known died. His gentle demeanour was gone, and he seemed to blame me for the whole situation that we had been forced into. My body was again flecked with orchid welts, as my present became a harrowing mirror of my past, transforming my life into a petrifying palindrome. Sam began drinking too, drowning himself in glass after glass of cheap beer at the local pub, pissing away our welfare cheques, and spending the following day in a prone, nauseated stupor. Somehow, though, he was able to stay sober for long enough to forge an unbelievable rapport with Hope, spending hour upon hour cuddling and playing with her, and engaging in animated conversations, all spoken in Hope’s unique, gurgling infant dialect. Later, he’d push her on the swings at the playground, and enter her make-believe worlds, where he treated her like the little princess that she was.

I wish I could say the same about the way he treated me, though. But his behaviour around Hope and me was like night and day, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Seconds after he lovingly tucked Hope into bed and kissed her on her innocent little forehead, he became a hideous, destructive, terrifying monster, breaking things, battering me both physically and emotionally, and demanding that I “make love” to him, whatever that meant. When I gave in, he went through the motions so brutishly, I would bleed for days. He’s a good father, how can I be mad at someone who makes my little girl so happy? I can get through this, I really can, one day at a time. And so it went, day in, day out, for three hellish years. But the one night he dared to show his dark side in front of our Hope, I knew I couldn’t live like this any longer. So I picked up my baby and disappeared into the night, to the womens’ shelter, where I made the most difficult phone call of my life. Within hours, my husband was behind bars.

************

Hope

They think I don’t remember, but I could never forget. Looking back, it’s scary how fast I had to grow up, how, like a forgotten plaything, my childhood just got left behind in the middle of the night.
Whenever I close my eyes, I can see it playing over and over, like a movie. But it’s different, because movies are just pictures with sounds, but in my memory, I can see, hear, feel, smell, even taste every terrifying detail of that night. One moment, I was sleeping soundly, swaddled in my Little Mermaid comforter, my thumb loosely planted in my mouth, as I dreamed that I was flying through the brilliant blue sky, just like an eagle, right next to my Daddy. Suddenly, I felt something lift me up, up….but it wasn’t like flying, it was like some giant hand was trying to yank me out of my bed. I wriggled and kicked to get down, but no matter how hard I fought, the grip tightened.

I could hear grown-ups’ voices screaming in the darkness, and I knew I was being carried away from the one person who truly loved me. “Daddy!!!” I screamed, over and over. But it was no use. The monsters in my closet had come for me. I twisted around, trying to see the face of the ominous spectre that had taken hold of me.
But it was no monster. It was my mother. Mommy, what are you doing? Put me down!! I want Daddy!!!

The next thing I knew, I was lying, wide-eyed and scared to death, on one of many rickety cots in a huge, poorly heated room with exposed wires hanging down from the ceiling, and paint peeling off the walls like over-picked scabs. Dressed only in my pink feetie pajamas and fear-saturated Pull-Ups, I shivered. Where’s my house? Where’s Daddy? I want to go home…I want to go home!!! The next morning, my mother took me back to the house where the nightmare had begun, but oddly, from that day on, it never felt like home. The lady at the shelter had even given us a free plaque, which my mother proudly, idiotically, kept hanging in the kitchen, which proclaimed, in elegant script, Our house is a very very very fine house, along with a picture of two kids, a dog, and a mom, smirking dumbly, soullessly, as if they didn’t even miss their daddy.
I hate that f***ing plaque.

************

Sam

I’m getting better now, I know I am. Ev’ry morning, I take a shower, and get myself dressed up real nice in the cleanest clothes I can find. Then I hop on the bus and head over to the Adult Learning Centre, where I learn all ‘bout math and litterchur and all the stuff I was too busy partying to care about the first time round. More importantly, though, I’m learning to be a good guy. Ev’ry Wednesday, I got counselling in the mental health ward at the hospital. I’m doing good. Two weeks since I last lit up, three weeks since my last beer, got myself a job at the Mike’s Mart down the street. s***ty pay, s***ty hours, psycho boss, but I don’t care. I’ll do anything to see my Hope again. I have a dream now too. When I make it outta this hellhole, I’m gonna go round to the high schools and tell all them kids never to make the same mistake I did.

************
Ophelia

The most horrifying flashbacks are the ones that happen right before your eyes, in living colour, to your own flesh and blood. But just the other day, it happened to me. It was around four in the afternoon, and Hope had arrived home from school. She’d brought a friend with her, a boy from her punk band, Chris somebody. I didn’t know him that well, but he looked like a good kid, clean-shaven and well-mannered, just what I’d looked for in a boyfriend when I was her age. With Hope out of the way, I decided to straighten up the house a bit. I feel it’s my duty, as a mother; even if I messed up my daughter’s life, somehow, if she has a clean house to live in, everything will be okay.
I dragged the aging Hoover out of the closet underneath the stairs, fumbled with the spring-loaded cord, and plugged it in. I was about to turn it on, when I heard strange moaning noises coming from the living room. Ohhh…Squeal!!!.....ohh….Ohh……OHH!!!
Geez, what passes for after-school TV programs these days? I switched on the vacuum, and pushed the ravenous nozzle up and down the carpet, watching it devour everything in its path. Dust bunny at three o’clock….Shwoop!! Up the hose, in a split-second, soon to face certain death in the deepest bowels of the vacuum-cleaner bag. Shwoop!! Shwoop!! Shwoop!!! I imagined that every molecule of vile, disgusting grime was Sam, as I worked my way back towards the living room.
Ohh…Ohh…..OHHH!!!

Only half listening, I decided to let Hope and her friend enjoy their TV show, whatever it was, until I heard something that assaulted my ears, causing my heart to leap into my throat.
Ohh…Ohhhh…..OHHH!!!! Oh Hope!!!
OHHH!!! Oh Chris!!!
I doubled back, flung open the door in panicked rage, and froze. How could my little girl do this to me?

************

Hope

Sometimes the worst thing you can possibly imagine happening to you turns out to be a blessing. After today, my mother will never again treat me like a small child, or pretend that my problems don’t exist.
Apart from my journal, the only one I can really tell things to is my boyfriend, Chris. He’s so unlike anyone else I know. Most people I see just stare, sizing me up from head to toe, their accusing eyes boring into me like a laser beam, automatically writing me off as a bad person, just because of my appearance. Oh, look at Hope, the human Barbie doll. Eww, she’s such a slut!!! I heard she has only 8% body fat. Whore!! Bitch!! Anorexic!!!
I’d trade places with you any day. Do you have any idea what I’d give to have cellulite, and acne, and a father? No, of course you don’t. Funny how everybody always wants what they can’t have.
But Chris was never like that. When he looks at me, I can tell he loves me, purely and fully, from the inside out. Now that I think of it, he’s like my dad, who always knew how I was feeling, and could make me feel better in an instant. After school today, when we met out front as usual, we looked into each others’ eyes for a second, my expressionless face reflecting in each of his chocolate irises, two perfect, yet miniscule mirrors, just like their owner, perfectly capturing and reflecting my innermost feelings. He reached out his burly arms, clad in a huge forest-green hoodie that smelled comfortingly of his Tommy cologne, and held me close to him in a reassuring embrace.
“What’s wrong, baby? Your mom been givin’ you a hard time again? And those girls, you know, they’re just jealous.”
I didn’t need to say anything back, he just knew. He knew I needed cheering up, so instead of getting on the school bus as usual, he walked back to my house with me.

“Hey, Hope, I have something for you….for both of us, actually.” Chris produced two joints from the pocket of his hoodie, and handed me one. I marvelled for a second at how neatly he was able to roll them up, with his large, manlike fingers, perfect for palming a basketball or giving back massages, but not for finicky jobs like this. Anyway, I knew it would be okay, he always bought it off our mutual best friend, Matt, who grew it in his basement.

He lit his, then mine. I put it to my lips, which curved into a rare smile. Inhale, exhale.…ahhh!!! My troubles floated away, dancing, swirling, twirling in the air, making beautiful patterns that lingered for a few seconds, then vanished as quickly as they had taken flight. The colours around me jangled in the breeze; the denim-blue curtains, the coral wallpaper, the perfect, technicolour images on the TV, and Chris. His soothing eyes, his spiked hair, dyed fire-engine red, his faded blue jeans, torn all over to reveal thick, athletic legs, like hairy tree trunks. The sweetest melody the eyes can hear. It soothes me, yet it energizes me, and suddenly, we both get lost in the moment. We come together as a single, perfect being, and dance together, as one, in the giant kaleidoscope of vibrant, mingled hues, spinning hypnotically all around us. I feel his hand slip under my shirt, under my bra, and rest there for a moment. But it’s okay, because it’s not mine anymore, but ours.

Whoosh….SLAM!!! The door flies open so hard it bangs against the wall. The music stops, and the magnificently melodious entity ceases movement, breaks apart, and becomes Hope and Chris once again. Hair askew, make-up smeared, shirt half on, half off, jeans undone, bra dangling around my neck in a telltale fashion, I stand up, turn around, and face my mother.
Cacophony.
“Hope, how dare you?!?!”
“How dare I what? I love Chris, and he loves me, which is more than I can say for you!! If you really loved me, you wouldn’t have lied to me all these years!!! Tell me the truth, Mom,” I spat out the last syllable in utter detest, “Where’s Dad?!?!”
Both my mother and Chris just stood there, not saying anything, flabbergasted at the sight of their little angel actually showing emotion.

I pulled myself together and stormed out of the room, out of the house, and into the world. My destination was not geographical, but it was definite. Daddy, where are you? I have to find you, I can’t go on like this. But I did. I forged onward, into the gathering dusk, walking, taking buses, hitching rides with complete strangers, not knowing or caring where I was going. My surroundings blurred, and melted into nothingness, which chilled me to the bone. I slowed my pace, allowed my eyes to focus once again, and plodded on for another block and a half, where I stopped in front of a Mike’s Mart, thinking that I could at least go inside, look around, and be warm for a few minutes. Hesitantly, I pushed open the heavy glass door, and walked in.
“May I help you?”

There, behind the counter, was the man from all the pictures, with my hair, my eyes, my smile, and my past. My eyes welled up with tears of bittersweet joy. Does he remember me? Does he know who I am? It’s worth a shot. Timidly, I make my way to the counter, feeling surreal, as if this can’t possibly be happening. I force my strained vocal cords to form the words, and my lungs to push them forward, where they hang in the air for a few moments, like the mist rising off a sleeping lake at dawn.
“Hi, Dad, it’s me, Hope. Remember me?”


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