Saturday, December 5, 2015

Guest Fiction Series: Vinnie, Part 3


For a few months, Rivaflowz.com will be taking four guest authors #fromblogtobook. Each week you'll be able to read a new installment from unique aspiring authors. This tale is from R. Preston Clark. Enjoy!
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(Read all parts here.)

Oh, he’s just not going to talk to me, huh? Oh, he thinks it’s okay to just ignore me, huh? Oh, he thinks… he thinks… he thinks…
Ahhhhhhhh!

Finally out of the confines of that car. Able to breathe in all of my insanity within these walls, my favorite walls, the walls of my bedroom. I rest all of my secrets in these walls. My blood stains its cracks, ripples like the Red Sea throughout its crevices, only to bubble over when its route seemingly ends. It gurgles at the edge of the carpet, screams at the sight of cleaning supplies only I provide. It wants to sit there, as a reminder to the pain that I go through whenever my father is the focal point of my innermost thoughts.
I try to remove him. Really I do. I try to focus on the wonderful woman who gave birth to me. The goddess who walks the hallways of this home with a grace and dignity only the queens she ascended from can attest to. I love my mother with everything I am.

I loathe my father with everything I am.
There he is again. Invading my glimpses of happiness with his unrelenting vile.

Why…
(I drive my hand into the wall)

Won’t…

(I do it again)
He…

(I do it again)
Love…

(I do it again)
Me…

I love my father with everything I am.
There is a dent in the wall where my hand likes to punch. If he paid attention at all, he would question why such a thing is in my room. But how can you question what you do not know? He would view it as some sort of teenage angst. I respond this way because I have raging hormones and out-of-control emotions. Funny thing is that I am in complete and utter control. I know why I do these things. I know why I must bleed from my knuckles. I know why I must feel pain. I know why the outer edges of my hands must be rough and rugged, despite my pension for painting.

I am provided with an adrenaline rush that is lacking due to his absence in my heart.
I love my father with everything I am.

My door opens as I pace back and forth. I pause to look who it is. And it is a goddess, checking in on me.
“Oh, Vinnie… not again…”

She wraps me in her arms, nestles me against her bosom and I am a child once again.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

Her tone says otherwise. Her tone tells me to scream at the top of my lungs until my deaf father hears my cries tearing through my adolescence with the fury of a 1000 men at war with themselves.

“I worry about you, son. Why must you punish yourself for something that he does?”

“I just want him to see me.”
“He sees you, just maybe not in the way that you would like.”

“Are you defending him?”
“I just want you to focus on the things he does do for you.”

Roof over my head. Cash in my pocket. Money for food. Gas. Electric… I don’t see love anywhere on this list.
“What he does isn’t enough. What I need you cannot purchase.”

“And what is that?”
I lift my head from her bosom.

“You already know. You give it to me every day.”
My mother smiles. It is warm and understanding. Our connection is one that my father and I will never reach. Yet, I continue to leave my arms outstretched. Hoping. Praying. Well, maybe not praying since that prayer is routinely sent back with a notice that reads, ‘Your father doesn’t seem to be responding.’ Neither is my Father.  

My mother, on the other hand, is the only reason I am still here. She fills my lungs with the oxygen necessary to continue with the melancholy existence of a 14-year-old boy who is too smart, too advanced for those that surround the academic arena. All I need are my books, my paintbrush, some paint and my mother. This is what sustains me, enables me to continue to blossom into a successful human being – with daddy issues.

I love my father with everything I am.

My mother looks my hand over. My right hand is noticeably more damaged than my left. I paint with my left so I am less likely to punch the wall with that hand. I am angry and disappointed, not stupid.

She smiles her heavenly smile. There is not a lot of strength behind her smile. Her beauty is evident. It is oddly painful to watch her smile. Yet, I cannot refrain from wanting to see her smile. There is just something about her smile…

She guides me towards my easel. There is a blank page sitting there, waiting. She puts the paintbrush in my hand, dabs the tip in paint. It is her favorite color – viridian green. I always keep a full cup of it for occasions like this. Moments when she reminds me of why I picked up a paintbrush in the first place. Our strokes are seamless, the imagery abstract. I save my abstract art for her. I have to be clearer with the average audience. But between us? Abstract is as concrete a language as any other. It is us in plain English. We know what it says. We know what it wants to say.
I love my mother with everything I am.
I loathe my father with everything I am.

She massages my hand. Her hands are soft, an extension of her calming demeanor. I love this woman. I do not know what I would do without her…
But I have to learn...


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R. Preston Clark is an educator, screenwriter, poet and open mic host with too much to say in too many ways.


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