Wrapped In Roses Story One

I sit and watch the rain. Leaning forward I rest my head on the damp, cool glass and watch the rain water flow freely, cleansing everything in its path. I wished I were like the rain. It knew how to quietly slip away and hide on the leaves of a tree, or the cracks in the pavement. I pulled my cartoon comforter over my head, covering my ears with headphones and tried to drift away into the sea of my imagination, reluctantly brought back into the moment, by the large ominous thuds and loud voices coming from my mother's room.

It was 1988 and I dreamed of running away. I fantasized that my life had become a funny sitcom where I played a 13 year-old runaway, blessed by god with early physical endowments. She lies about her age and gets a job in NY City and lives on her own in secret. I dreamed such unlikely dreams of freedom; it was the only thing that brought me comfort in dark times.
I absorbed the misery and grittiness around me like a worn out kitchen sponge. I was a sensitive child with a heavy bag of secrets to carry. I thought I couldn't hide it. If others looked into my eyes long enough, they could see my eyes were not that of an ordinary child.

February 14th, Valentine's Day. A time when children everywhere are forced to fill out heart shaped cards and reluctantly give them to classmates they love to hate. The television advertisements spoke of romance, Hallmark cards, and candy. Commercials featuring hazy images of women with red lipstick and big hair; walking along the beach arm in arm with a tall dark and handsome lover. This was no more real to me than a fairy tale. Love in our home was never that simple. It was always painful and came with a downside.

I could hear my mother's voice in the hallway. She was spewing venom and spitting anger. I was relieved I could not decipher her words. I had my cassette player turned up as loud as it could go, and I still wished it was one louder.
They were fighting again. No surprise, everyday was a fight. Round one (ding, ding, ding) what caused it this time? I was sure that Ray conveniently forgot it was Valentines Day. I also knew that Mom would have reminded Ray with fresh insults much to her own disgust. I knew Ray did not arrive home from work flowers in hand, a card in his pocket waiting for my mother's embrace. He arrived home as he did every day. His curly dark hair glistening with sweat, body wrapped in a cheesy K-mart flannel, lips pursed with anticipation. He had one goal. He didn't want to see his kids. He didn't want to see my mom. He wanted to feel well. He just wanted to shoot the heroin in his jean-pants pocket, and he had no problem injecting my family with his sickness.

Ray's world was my mother's bedroom. The wooden door was always shut tightly. It was battered and bruised bearing the scars of pounding fists. The wood felt splintered beneath my fingertips. Images of what went on behind this closed door were often hidden, but words flowed like light, freely underneath. I would imagine as the voices became louder the door swelling and gasping trying like hell to keep the dirty little secrets contained. When the door could no longer contain the swelling arguments it would open and the hatred would spill out drowning me in its heavy, dark currents.
I could then no longer ignore my mom's voice. "Oh my god! Call an ambulance, Oh my god!"

It had happened before. It was always the possibility with any fix. The medicine was tainted, or he decided to take too much.
I deeply drew in the air around me and reached out to open my door. I knew that I couldn't hide from the urgency of my mother's voice anymore. I had to turn the knob and unleash reality.
My mom's bedroom door was open and spilling all of its secrets. Ray lay on the bed, bunched, wrinkled blankets all around him. He had a freshly lit cigarette tucked between his two fingers. His eyes rolled back in his head like a demon in a heavy metal music video complete with movie style special effects, white foam dripping from the edges of his mouth.

When I turned and saw my mother, she appeared small and fragile. She stood across the hallway and screamed like a child, too traumatized to pick up the phone and call for help. She shouted demands to anyone that could come to her rescue. Her face wet with tears. She was the classic damsel in distress looking to be saved, but her prince was always her own daughter Jody. My 19 year-old sister was expected to come to the rescue. It had been scripted that way many times. I looked over and saw Jody holding the phone tightly in her hand. Her hair freshly coiffed in hairspray, glazed over blue eyes highlighted with black eyeliner. She was standing outside my younger sister's room. Her body leaning against the door shielding them from what they could not yet understand. The children cried in ferocious waves, choking and spitting. I looked over at Jody and I knew despite our differences, for just a moment; we shared the same dream. One way or another Ray would leave our family alone, and for a split second I knew she had regretted calling 911...
If it were not for the sirens in the distance getting louder with each breath.. I may have believed the dream and wished for it even though it meant the death of a human being. It was the pain that took over my senses, and with that I harvested a bit more hatred inside, and I hated myself for it,