Get to Bed!

It’s currently 8:42pm on this fine Monday evening. I wish that I could say that everything is quiet but that is most certainly not the truth. I can hear three boys in the back being loud. Loud in the evening. Loud when they should be sleeping. Loud on a school night! Loud, when it almost an hour past their bedtime. All I can think about right now is “Ugh. Go to bed!”. They may be sweet angels when they are sleeping, but they are being a little bit devilish now. Oh how I do love them though. It’s a darn good thing they were made to be sooo cute!

“Go to bed boys!”, I yell back to their rooms.

It’s now 8:51pm.

I think I yelled a bit too loud. I can hear the baby starting to cry.

I’m sure that my wife is starting to wish that I would go to bed, just so that everything will be quiet out here. I hesitate to look over at her as she attends to the baby. I really don’t feel like seeing daggers come flying towards me from her eyes. At least the baby is back asleep. I can’t say the same for the other three boys.

When did the phrase “go to bed” lose its weight in this house?

The answer: A long time ago.


Black-Eyed Susan

They call her “Black-Eyed Susan”.  I guess it’s because of how she looks almost every day.  She’s a pretty little girl, nine years old, with light brown pigtails and a sweet smile, when she can muster one.  I’ve known her for what seems her entire life.  I’m her friend and as long as I can, I’ll be there for her, always, to wipe away the tears and hug her when she cries.

Mommy isn’t around anymore, although we see her from time to time on the way to school.  At first Susan didn’t understand why her mother needed to sleep so much in a field under a cherry blossom tree, but I think she understands a bit better now.  She doesn’t think that I can see her crying sometimes, but I always know when she has been.  Her hazel eyes can’t hide the fact that they reached their bursting point and dried all up.  Her father, daddy as we call him (among other things that I do), is why she cries so much these days.  You see, daddy is an alcoholic and Susan is at the right height for his hand to make contact with.  He’s more than just a drinker: He’s an uncontrollable, abusive drunk.

I blame myself.

If only I had the power to just stop him.  Just once, if only just once.  Is that too much to ask?  How can I be a friend to somebody if I can’t come to their aid when it is so obviously needed?  Why do I just let it happen?  What can I do?  What should I do?  What is there for me to do?

I choke back my own tears as I hear the slaps, or even the occasional cracks of leather, as they shoot their way up the stairs into our room.  After everything has finally died down and the faint sounds of footsteps are heard on the creaking wooden stairs, Susan comes into the room through the door, the only barrier we have.  Sometimes she comes in looking brave and strong and not letting what had happened get the better of her.  But that’s just sometimes.  Most of the time you can quite literally see the pain wiped across her face.  I just want to hold her, wipe her tears away, tend to her wounds, and tell her that everything will be alright (even if I don’t know for sure that it ever will be).  I feel like I’m trapped on the other side of the mirror, always seeing her but never really feeling her.

I help her as often as I can, yet strangely she refuses my offer on most nights.  Not tonight however.  Tonight I help her change her clothes and get ready for bed.  And as usual, right before she struggles her way into bed, daddy calls up to us from his favorite recliner, beer in hand no doubt, “Susan, remember, daddy loves you”.  He sounds sincere.  And sad, as if he has lost someone and knows that he’s going to lose someone else.

I look at her trying to gauge her emotions, but she’s just staring down at her feet.  Really, I don’t need to look into her blackened eyes to know how she feels.

She props herself onto her pillow and adjusts her positioning to lessen the belted discomfort on her back.  After I tuck the blanket around her into a makeshift cocoon, she turns slightly towards me and asks me to tell her a story, the one about the little girl who looks adversary in the eye and gathers the strength to get past it, letting her live happily ever after.  I always oblige, I mean, how couldn’t you?  It’s her favorite.

Susan is asleep before I even start.

I spend the rest of the my waking hours caressing her light brown pigtails, watching her, listening to faint sobs as she sleeps.  I can also hear the sounds of a person downstairs who has created all of this misery.  Too much I feel for one so young and innocent to bare.  Although she does exhibit such strength, it’s just not enough at times, not in my mind at least.  I wish that I could give her a childhood without the pain and the fear of each day.  Susan might be strong enough however to one day, hopefully, to get past all of this.  I can feel it, deep down.  She has the will to keep going.  She’s so brave.

I know that I’ll never be up to her level.  How I wish I could be.  I just never will be and it kills me to admit that you know.

I really am looking at her from the other side of the mirror.  I’ll never truly be able to reach out to her and feel her.  But at least I’ll always be here for her.  Always until the joyous day that she doesn’t need me anymore.  And that is my job; has been from the start.  It’s to be here for her until I am no longer needed.  Even though all of this has happened to her – everything she went through with her mother, everything that she is going through with her father – I know that everything will be alright when I can finally say my goodbyes to Susan.

I’ll miss her, but I know that she will be happy when I’m gone.  One day she’ll discover that she doesn’t need me.  I’ll always need her though.

My name is Abby, and I’m Susan’s imaginary friend.

© nice game of chess, 2012

I encourage anyone…

I encourage anyone to offer a comment, praise, criticism, an opinion, or even a helpful reminder with any and all of my writings that I shall inevitably post here. I encourage it because the only way for me to improve in this craft is to hear from others. I will post whatever I can, well written or not. Whether I like it or if I don’t because it’s just best that way. I need the practice of writing and posting and the only way to become proficient with it is to just do it.

So, here I am, doing what I said I shall do, with more to come. I have now opened the floodgates for the waves of reactions to flow in. I’m sitting in a boat now, net in hand, just waiting for my first catch.

… all that interested

I was never really all that interested in maintaining a blog before. The urge to do so just wasn’t in me, or at least so I thought, until a few weeks ago when I began to really consider it. Basically I viewed it as a bit odd knowing that what I conceive in my head will be put out on the web for all to read. I’ve never really been all that comfortable expressing myself in this way, but now I’m not too nervous of leaving myself open for others to observe.

I tell myself that it doesn’t matter what others think but that’s just not true. I do care and I need to know that I can allow to have this open feeling. I shall cringe every time I’m about to hit the submit button. But I will also feel relief, having let a piece of me go out with the chance that it may flourish. I will feel happy, and also a bit curious, when someone wants more of what I have to offer.

I may not have been all that interested before, but now I am. The question remains if others will be interested in me.