Red Eye

Part Seventeen

I don't remember much of my childhood. The bad parts I've made an effort to forget though they flicker about in my mind every now and then. The good parts, however far and few between, are harder to conjure. Unless I really concentrate, pull them close and rein them in, those memories are fleeting. But sitting here, with all the time in the world, I have nothing better to do than think.

Looking back, everything's hazy. Like a murky watercolor; swirls of bright, vivid colors dancing together before everything comes into focus. I remember running and laughing. I remember skinned knees and bloody cuts and cartoon bandaids and soothing kisses to make them go away. I remember catching snowflakes on my tongue and burying my feet in the sand. I remember family vacations and movie marathons and playing boardgames. I remember sitting on the porch and looking at the stars. 

I remember Dad picking me up from school on Fridays, sitting in the booth of our favorite restaurant and eating pizza, just talking about whatever was on our mind. I remember Mom in the garden, hunched over, hands covered in dirt, pulling weeds and picking flowers for the dining room table. They always made me sneeze. 

I remember the taste of vanilla birthday cake, the boxed kind, and the frosting's artificial coloring dying my tongue. I remember my first Halloween stomach ache from eating too much candy. I remember accidentally breaking an ornament when I was decorating the tree and having a crying fit, thinking Santa would take away all my presents. 

These moments in time. Just flashes here and there. They make me crack a smile, occasionally laugh, make me hastily wipe away the tears. But they never linger, never last as long as I want them to. They fade just as quickly as they come, leaving me with nothing that I can hold on to. 

When I left, I didn't think to take any of these memories with me. Never even crossed my mind to swipe a family album or VHS tape to look back on. No beloved stuffed animal to take with me on the road. No priceless object to hold near and dear to my heart, its deeper significance only known to me. Whatever tangible memories that remained, locked away in the attic or buried away in the basement, are now left to rot along with my parents in the home I had turned my back on. 

Since my mother's death, hearing her last words replay themselves over and over in my head, a certain memory has finally reared its ugly head, taunting me with its gaping maw, laughing at my misery. Its remembrance comes with a bitterness, a sinking feeling that will drag me down with it. 

Funny how easy it is to remember all the bad stuff that's ever happened to you. How frequently that mess replays itself in your mind. You can feel every action, recall every word. You're at the mercy of these moments, helpless to do anything about them. You're trapped with a terror of your own making. 

I've tried to push this particular memory away, tried to forget it with the rest of the nasty ones. But this one is stubborn. I think the memories that hold the most regret, that carry all that weight with them, those are the hardest to get rid of. You can't bury them, can't drown them. They refuse to stay down, keep bubbling their way to the surface. Try as you might, they can't be easily forgotten. 

I remember that night at the dinner table, making the plates rattle as I slammed by fists. I remember that dizzy feeling as I stood up, heart pounding against my chest. I remember the tightness in my jaw, having clenched my teeth throughout the entire meal, holding my tongue for too long. I remember Dad raising his voice at me, looking at me with disgust in his cold blue eyes, a sliver of spit dangling from the corner of his mouth after he had finished his long, angry rant. I remember pushing Mom away as she tried to wrap her arms around me, the whimper of distress caught in her throat, the tears that fell from her eyes. I remember the hatred that rose in me that night, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"I wish both of you were fucking dead! Maybe then, I'd finally stop feeling like such a disappointment, finally stop feeling like such a goddamn waste of space. My life would be better... will be better... once both of you are in the fucking ground!"

I remember running out of the room, my parents left frozen in dumbfounded silence. I remember bracing myself against the stair railing, one foot perched on the first step. I remember how hard I  fought against that urge to turn around, run to them and plead for forgiveness. A wave of guilt rushed toward me, trying to push me back to them, but I held firm, refusing to be pulled away. I didn't want to let go of the feeling those words gave me, that power that surged in my veins, that adrenaline high that I wasn't ready to come down from. 

I said what I said and in that moment, I had meant it. I was tired, I was angry, and I was done. I was done with all of their nagging questions, their ignorance, their empty-promises, their confusion. I was done with all of it. I was done with them.

How I wish I could take back those words now. Once I breathed life into those cruel, heartbreaking words, there was nothing I could do. Dad had turned into a Red-Eye, a monster out for blood. And he had slaughtered my Mom, ripped away everything good and pure about her. I had been spared because of my selfishness, my desire to get away from them long before the virus took them away from me for good. 

We all make mistakes, say and do things that we don't mean. But this, what I had done, what I had said, was soo much worse. This wasn't an accident. This wasn't something we could sweep under the rug like we did with all of our other family problems. This wasn't an issue we could simply ignore. 

I had made a wish and the Red-Eyes made sure it came true.