Page 2 of Between Hope & Tragedy

Part of the reason I ran so far away from home was because I didn’t want to damage anyone else. I decided to let myself drown in the darkness that had built up inside of me since mybaby was taken from me; to let the sadness and pain consume me… so it wouldn’t hurt anyone else.

Of course, I hadn’t exactly left on good terms. I sat my parents down, and told them how much I hated them for abandoning me when I needed them the most. I told them that I wished they would die slow, painful deaths, and never think of me again. I sure as hell didn’t plan to think of them.

Their faces were a mixture of shock, hurt, and maybe even a dash of relief. It was something that I let the demons inside of me hold closely. I wanted them to drown in my sorrow and hatred for them, and leaving was the only way I knew how to make it happen.

To me, that was the only truly beautiful thing left in this filthy world. Knowingon the inside, I had killed them over and over, with each death more horrible than the last.

But that was just a passing thought these days. I had been making progress and moving on from that moment, even though it would always creep up on me whenever I acknowledged my scar. I liked to think that though I was as damaged as I was, maybe I did have hope.

I pushed the stray hair from my face that the breeze had shaken loose and sighed. I wouldn’t dwell on those thoughts right now. This was my calm moment, right before the proverbial storm that always hit, and I was going to enjoy it.

I pulled off my t-shirt so I could lay it out behind me, and laid down on top of it, crossing my arms behind my head. I didn’t care that I was lying there in my bra. My scar was hidden because I was lucky enough to have the crescent shape hidden well; having been cut open above the pelvic bone.

I took a deep breath and let it out, repeating the act three times until I felt myself go to my comfortable place. I never thought of it as a ‘happy place’, because I was certain I didn’t have one.

It took me almost no time to fall asleep. Something that would take hours of tossing and turning in my bed, was done easily enough on the sand with the ocean nearby. I’d been meaning to buy a sound machine, but I always forgot.

It wasn’t long before I was startled awake. A beach ball had landed near me, spraying sand all over me and I sat up to see who the culprit was. A pair of teenage boys with sheepish looks on their faces ran over to me.

“Sorry! I told him not to hit it so hard,” the one with the bright red swim shorts said.

“It’s okay,” I replied with a smile. I retrieved the ball from the other side of me and handed it to him, waving as they ran off.

I started to lie back down, but a sudden, bad feeling in the pit of my stomach kept me from going back to the world of dreamless sleep. I sat up and looked around, wondering if it was maybe someone watching me. After the boys had disappeared from view, there was no one near me. Upon further inspection, I noticed there was barely anyone left on the beach.

So, why do I have such a bad feeling all of a sudden?

I got to my feet and grabbed my shirt, shaking loose any sand that had managed to stick to it, before I pulled it over my head. I put my hands on my hips for a moment, and took one last sweeping look around the area until I was satisfied that I wasn’t being watched.

I ran back home with my flip-flops in my hand, trying to figure out what had suddenly shaken me so badly.

After I’d showered and dried my hair, I went into my bedroom and sat down at my desk. I adjusted my towel to keep it firmly wrapped around my body, and flipped open my laptop. I decided to surf the internet and see if anything major had happened in the news. Realizing nothing of note was there, I decided to go to theLos Angeles Timesobituaries and began my regular routine of searching for my parents’ names.

I spent a good fifteen minutes scrolling through all of the names. I liked to take my time and go slowly–a personal form of torture–and was just about to close my laptop when I saw it.

A name I recognized. A name belonging to someone I loved. A name that wasn’t MomorDad.

“Frances Robert Lettsworth, aged 84, entered into eternal rest on Friday...”

I stared at the picture next to the headline and felt tears start to sting my eyes. All of the sadnessI had been feeling was suddenly making sense. Even though I didn't know my grandfather had died until just now, I understood I was feeling things that bothered me more than usual. For as long as I could remember, I had an amazing relationship with that man. I kept in touch with him during the first few years I was gone, but after a while, each time I tried to reach out there would be no answer. I wasn't sure why, but now...

This was the second time in my life that I had ever experienced what I would consider true heartbreak. The feeling of someone punching a hole into my chest while wearing a pair of spiked, brass knuckles–puncturing my life source–was the only way to explain it. The slow bleeding out, the ragged hole in my heart; it was happening again and I wasn't sure if I could deal with it this time.

I couldn't bring myself to read the rest of the obituary. My wanting and waiting for my parents to die had backfired on me. Grandpa Frances was my mother's father, and she was the one who’d shut me out before my father did. I remember the phone calls with Grandpa like they happened yesterday. He would tell me how angry he was with her for what she did to me, that he loved me very much, and how I always had a home with him and Grandma.

I closed my eyes for a moment and let the tears escape. He was worth the tears, the sorrow, and the heartache. I would let myself cry for him, and while I allowed myself to grieve, I opened another tab on Chrome and pulled up travel websites. I wouldn't let my mother or father keep me away from the funeral. They could fight me when I got there, they could curse my name and the day I was born, but I was going to see GrandpaFrances one last time, and there wasn't a damn thing they could do to stop me.

I skimmed the announcement to see when the services would be held, and realized that I would have to leave tomorrow. His funeral was going to be held on Tuesday, followed by the burial on Wednesday–and today was Sunday.

With a deep breath, I went back to the travel page and booked my flight. It cost a hell of a lot more than it should have, but, it was a last minute thing and afterward, per their company policy, I would be able to get some money back for bereavement..

Once the reservations, including hotel and car, were taken care of, I shut down my laptop. I stood up and pulled my towel off, making sure I was dry, before I went over to my bed and got dressed in the clothes I had laid out. I decided that today was going to be another bowl of ice cream and chick-flick day, so the bra wasn't necessary. I reached for my loose, gray sweatpants and pulled them on, followed by a black, ribbed tank top, and sighed.

Some days are just meant for tears and ice cream, I thought miserably as I left my room and went to the kitchen.

At 3am the next morning, I was in my car and heading to Orlando International Airport. There were closer airports to fly out of, but I always liked that one because it was bigger, and I knew the layout. It took me just under two hours to get there, and I let the valet take my car. I gave him a larger tip than he was used to, and told him to take good care of my car.

Money was never a concern to me. Grandpa Frances had put some money into a high yield trust for me when I was born, and every now and then I would go in and take some out. Twenty-eight years of interest meant I would be able to live a very comfortable life, and I knew that as long as I left something in there, the interest accrued would continue to pay back more than what I took out.

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