A Short Story: The Truth

Part Four

      "My name is Charlie Armstrong, and Charles was my father. You all have such high opinions of him, and though this isn't necessarily a bad thing, it just isn't true. Nothing that anyone has said today is true, and I'm here to change that; I'm going to be the one who tells the truth."

     I could see that I was intriguing several people, most of which I didn't know. But each person I could convince was a bonus, and I took what I could get.

     "One warm summer day, in the heart of our oh-so-happy home, something happened that changed my outlook on my father; it instantly went from love and admiration to pure, destructive fear. That's exactly what my father was: destruction. I was no older than seven or eight, around nine years ago; yet I can remember it like it's happening in front of my eyes in this moment. I remember where I was standing: in the doorway leading to stairs that brought you to my bedroom in our country home. I remember who was in the room: my entire family- my sisters, my parents, and me, the youngest. There were these pillars that formed a fairly small square that separated our living room from the dining room and front door. On the pillar, there was a ledge, and on that ledge, there was a solid metal sign that read this: 'The love of a family is life's greatest blessing.' I can't recall why, but at the time, my father was furious. When he got angry, there was no going back; he was a ticking time bomb, and the slightest deviation from what he said was okay sent him exploding. I remember so vividly his face turning this brilliant shade of red that only could mean he was full of rage. Before I could even process what was happening, my father turned to his right, pulled the sign off of the pillar, and proceeded to fold the sheet of metal into a folded ball of sorts. By doing so, he was throwing away the curvy words painted there; he destroyed the love within our family. Maybe it was gone before that, and I just never noticed because I was too young and oblivious. For me, however, that was the moment that everything changed."

     Holding my audience captive with my words, everyone was intensely focused on everything I was saying. Most of my audience didn't seem convinced thus far, but no one had left, which meant I had hope. I took a deep breath, my hands shaking, and dared to continue my speech.

     "Rachel, I always respected you, and you were good to me and my sisters. But you told these people lies, and nothing you said was anywhere near the truth. You spoke of my father taking us to baseball games, and spun a wonderful tale; however, I'm here to set the story straight. The one baseball game I've ever been to was for Wallace Community College. My father's friend Rodney had rented box seats- ones that lead into a small room with couches and even a refrigerator. I thought it was luxurious, and it was something I had never experienced; I remember getting a scoop of chocolate ice cream in a small, plastic ball cap that I still have in a box beneath my bed. The night started off wonderful; although I knew nothing about baseball and didn't bother to watch, I was having a good time. However, that didn't last forever, and it never did with my father. Things began to take a turn for the worst when they brought the alcohol out; it never did mix well with my father. He began with a few beers, nothing too drastic, and nothing abnormal. But a few was never enough, and before anyone could stop him, he was drunk. Unfortunately, when he was drunk, he was terrifying. I've always believed that fear translates to destruction; this was one of those moments. When my father drank, good things never happened, and I knew that; he always got angry and yelled, so I was fearful for the future. I was scared for the right reason, because within an hour, I was already getting screamed at and punished for a mere accident. I was only six or seven, and a bit clumsy. So when I tipped a few splashes of a beer left opened onto my father's jacket, you can imagine his rage. He sent me to sit alone for the remainder of the night, forced to think about what I had done, which made me believe that every accident I made as a child turned me into a screw up and a bad daughter."

     I paused, taking a breath and collecting myself. I stared out at all the faces, some looking apologetic, others seeming to be almost angry. Despite that, I continued.

     "These were regular events, and things that happened every day. Small accidents were fuel for incomprehensible anger in my dad's eyes, and it resulted in me feeling like I was constantly messing things up. No one deserves to feel that way. I don't care what you've done, or who you are, or what you think; no one deserves to feel the way that I did, especially at the hands of a parent who's meant to love you unconditionally."

     I had gotten lost in my own words, and hadn't realized that I was crying. These were things that I hadn't spoken of in years, and the memories being drawn back into my heart were having an unappreciated impact on me. I stepped back a few inches from the podium and wiped my tears, attempting to stop them as they fell, but failing pathetically. Jeffery made his way to me, an unreadable look on his face. I braced myself to be scolded, but it never came, and he went to the microphone to continue the ceremony as if I had never spoken.