an example of my teenage writing years


You are in the bedroom. A very bland, empty room containing only a small bed and an open closet. The light reflects off of the walls, making them look yellow instead of white.

I keep reminding myself that I don’t live here. I’m only visiting. Next to me are three small children huddled together in a corner, talking to one another in quiet, hushed tones. Despite their totally different ethnicity (they were Mexican. I was white), these were my siblings. Half-siblings, to be exact, but still family.

The quiet. The dreadful, hanging, horrible, irritating quiet is quickly shattered by a slamming door. A woman I don’t recognise rushes to the doorway, her hands up in a defensive stance. She’s starting to sob now, as the man who slammed the door is now yelling at her. I get a good look at the man, and a knot forms in my throat as I remember why I was here.

The man walks angrily into the room the three children and I were sitting in. That man is my father, drunk and angry. As usual. His skin has become so red, it’s started to take a slight shade of purple. He says nothing. He just looks me right in the eye. I was so scared at this point, not knowing what he was going to do to me. Hit me? Yell at me? Do nothing?

He decided to break up the silence.

“You tell people that I’m your father. You don’t tell them that I’m your dad. Why do you do that? I’m your fucking dad alright! You are my son! I am not just some sperm donor for your stupid mother! Now get the fuck out of my house before I kill you!”


You are outside. The sun is bright. Squirrels are running up trees while birds fly high up in the air. You barely notice the cold breeze coming in.

I was on my way home. I was going to ask my mother what she ever saw in that man.

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