Golden Greaser

- 12 -

    I want to look away, rip my sight from the ghostly image of my father lying dead and without the beautiful life that used to be in his eyes.

   But I can't. 

    It was so raw. 

     It was so shocking.

     It was so...painful.

   I don't know what it was about the human mind that just stared at tragedy, just staring, captivated by death. Hoping that it wasn't real. Praying that it was all a dream, and you would wake up any moment now. 

    But while I stared at the man that had given me life, taught me how to ride a bike, loved me when I thought I was unlovable, I knew I was just lying to myself.

   People say when a person dies, they look all peaceful and free of pain. 

    My dad looked like he had been through one of those concentration camps and then froze when the night came, dying in the most excruciating manner.

   It tore me apart. 

   Piece by piece, my guard crumbled. 

    Second by second, my heartbeat got faster and my adrenaline more deafening. 

    Minute by minute, my emotion grew louder, screaming and clawing at my mouth to release them. 

    They took me over, savagely wrapping their tendrils around my body, sending a cry of anguish from my lips.

   I could barely breath. But I ran. That's what I had always done. 

    With the last illusion of hope that I possessed, I tore down the street with long, desperate strides. I could barely feel the cold air burning through my lungs with every breath I took.

   My exhales dispersed the air with quick clouds of steam, over and over they would keep coming.

   I kept going.

   I kept running.

   I kept crying.

   I kept on.

   The darkness of night gave way to dim streetlamps guiding my way to the only place I knew I could run to. 

    To the only person I knew that would be willing to help me when I knew no one else would. 

    To the white house at the end of street with a fence circling its perimeter.

    A burning, biting fire took hold of my throat, threatening to close my breathing off for good. 

     But I kept running. 

    I pushed harder, I pushed faster. I sprinted to the end of Ridinger, slowing at the fenced-in sidewalk and opening the latch to the gate.

   Finally, I reached the porch and stopped for a moment to catch my breath and collect the little composure I still had left. I reach up, knocking loudly three times on the door.

   Sodapop answers quickly, looking at me with a shiny grin that quickly turns into an expression of concern.

   "Hey, uh, are you--"

   "Is Darrel home." I cut him off, running my hands through my hair.

    He blinks, sympathy seeping from his dark brown eyes. "Hey, Diana, what's wro--"

   "Is Darrel home, Sodapop." My voice cracks and his face blurs in front of me. 

   "Yeah, Darry's home. I'll go get him for ya." He says quietly, staring at me a moment longer before he closes the door.