Moises Garcia
Mr. Grout
Composition
June 10, 2015
Alone
Alone. A word I think explains so much about me. Alone? Yes, alone is what I have dealt with my entire life. I am the only son of four children; I am alone. I am the oldest of all four kids; I have three younger sisters. As the oldest I have a large amount of responsibilities and when I make mistakes, they are displayed for my sisters and for the world to see. I'm alone.
Alone. A dark room, pitch black, nothing in sight but a light shining on an empty chair. This is how I feel: the darkness of the room-the world, the chair-me, and lastly is the light-hope. The darkness of the world scares me like a hunter scares a deer, just waiting to be shot and gutted. My life has been full of sorrow and lessons and I've learned in order to survive in this cruel world. *
I was ten years old. My bed's blankets covered me like when water covers the skin when your whole body is in a pool. I lay asleep as if I were baby Jesus in the manger, such a peaceful place. I was awakened by the scream of a woman. It reminded me of La Llorona, a Mexican legend of a woman. This woman was abandoned by her husband which lead to such hatred that she killed her two children. After realizing her consequences she drowned herself from the sorrow of her children's death. Now she walks through the streets crying because she is alone.
Realizing that the scream's owner was my mother I jumped from my bed. I ran out of my room and saw two shadows fighting. It was my mom and my dad. He was back from a night of drinking, like always, but tonight was different, the smell of cheap store bought liquor burned my nostrils. My father was yelling louder than usual. He was a raging bull, my mom the bull fighter, struggling to calm him down. Tonight it was fatal, life or death. I was scared as my mother screamed to my father to stop acting ridiculous and go to bed. My dad roared at my mom like a blood hungry lion, calling her names that would make you question their marriage. I stood, frozen from all the hatred being passed between these two opposing forces. A conflict much like the definition I learned in eighth grade literature. In eighth grade, the meaning of conflict was a disagreement between two sides. But their marriage was much more than a disagreement.
*
I stared out of the car window. My three little sisters sat next to me half asleep in the back seats of our Toyota Sienna, a raincloud colored minivan. I was exhausted from packing all my possessions the night before. As my mother closed the U-Haul trailer I knew that was it, I may never get to see my parents together ever again. While I thought about all the happy memories my parents and I had made together I felt as if they didn't even care of those moments anymore. I cried because all those moments of happiness were gone. No Teacher Parent meeting will be the same, No Band concert will be same, my whole life will never be the same. My parents filed for a divorce. My father was a heavy alcoholic and he ended their marriage with a domestic violence case. My mother was mentally, physically, and emotionally abused by my father and that night, when they fought, was the night I learned that evil can lurk anywhere even the people you love. I am the son of divorced parents. * My mom drove on open rode to California. We were driving back to our place of origin, where we first lived, when my parents were together. While she drove west towards California my mind went back to the place my father was. We left him in Iowa to deal with his demons. That was the day I began the journey of rebellion towards my father, I hated him for what he did to mother, he didn't deserve to be a free man, he should have went to jail like the rest of the men that hurt innocent women. But my mother generously let the father of her children be free. I also learned that even though people will cast evil upon you it is best to not