The SocietyMature

Sol Davidson

I sat on the road looking out for dad's car. Ever since that day, he insists on picking me up from school. If Im not there...he panics.

The car swooped down the road and made a clean enterence, stopping just at my feet. Stepping in tentitively, he began his interrogation.

"How were things today?" He asked as usual.

"Schoolish." I answered briefly.

"Made any new friends, were they nice to you? Do you like it better here? We can change the school if you dont like it."  I never got how he could fit all those questions in one sentance.

"No Im fine." I answered, giving him a smile.

"You sure, right son?" he asked, "cause, if there's anything wrong, you can always come to me." Good, he's been diplomatic, and left out mom.

"Yeah, I promise dad." I sighed, as he continued his bombardment, question after question I shook my head, "Im fine...Im fine" but how could I blame him. I couldn't...

Three months ago, I didn't come home from school. I went to a Motel, and rented a room with dad's credit card. The receptoionnist handed me a key, but at the same time, called my father. If it wasn't for the dumb bastard's honesty, I'd be dead.


I figeted with the strap of my watch, on my left wrist, "Really dad, Im fine. Thanks." I muttered, before allowing a smile in his direction. I always smiled. I didn't want him to see the pain pouring out from the invisible hole in my stomuch, so I smiled. I didn't want him to keep asking me questions, so I smiled, even if I knew things were all wrong, even if he knew things where all off, I smiled. No matter how much he pleaded, I could never tell him. I wanted them near me, my old friends, my old life, down in the country, were we'd play by the stream, and hold picnics on the beach. Just us four. No one else. I wish I had the courage to tell him what I needed, how much I wanted to go back, but I didn't.

The memories are too painful now, the memories of now, mixed ith the memories of a time long ago. Dad still didnt know, if only I had had the strength to cry on his shoulder instead of scrunch my self in a ball on my bed at night, and clench my crying eyelids shut in the hope that the nightmares would stay away. If  I had, then perhaps that night, I wouldn''t have landed up in the hospital again like the rerun of an old horror movie, while I muttered again and again, "Sorry dad, Im so sorry", fiddling with a bandage accross my arm, covering the bright new scar to contrast the old one on my left wrist, blood still all over my bedroom floor.  

The End

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