It was all about war.
Since I was five years old, my father was gone on tours before I was even born; so when he came back when I was six; he was a complete stranger to me. Of course my mother talked about him often to friends and family; he just always seemed like a phantom of my making, just photographs as my mother holds me, as my mother holds her like a bandaid around this family.
When I grew up with him from that point at the age of six, he didn't live up to what I was told. Instead of a strong back and contagious laugh, he would just glare upon my childish face, and call me a cunt. I ran to my aunt and cried in her arms as I told her what had happened. I learned that tattling wasn't a good thing to do, especially when he told me snitches get stitches.
As I grew up, I learned to drive, to date, and to interact; most of the time my friends wanted to come over because of my dad's guns. Usually I told them he keeps them locked up, excessively cleaning them in the early hours of the morning. He calls them an inspections, I but cleaning these guns was a ritual for him. He would sit there in the dark and talk to himself as he cleaned the gun with such gentleness, it was like he was caring for a newborn.
Now that I am doing computer work as a technician, living with my girlfriends and two cats. I'd visit my family as often as I possibly could, but everytime that I lifted my gaze to my father, all he would say to me was that I was Chinese trash; ranting about how I should've joined the war with him. I always left feeling sorry for his troubled reality after the war that rendered him helpless.
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Short Stories From a Poetic Girl
Short StoryThese are short stories/poems that i have written in class and i would like to publish. All of these stories are mine and mine alone. Sometimes there will be a few poems that pop up here and there, but most of these short stories are sometimes relat...
