Random Self-Quarrells and arguments.

Memoir

The walls around me screamed and seemed to lean towards me, forcing me to close my eyes and finally think. I was sitting and shivering on the asphalt floor of the old, white shed. My heart was racing about half as fast as my thoughts. As I close my eyes, searing hot streams of tears bead down my cheeks from my eyes. Drip. Drip Drip. The tears fall, exploding into a steam after they hit the snowflake covered ground. I'd forgotten to close the door.. *creaaakkkk.... SLAM.* I reach my arms and hands out into the darkness after closing the door. My fingers recoil at the touch of anything unknown... which in this case was everything. *Click....* "Well I-I guess t-the lights don't w-work," I thought to myself. I was so cold even my conscious' teeth were chattering. I crouch back down and search for anything to keep me warm for the time being. I felt the tickle of creepy, thin, leg-like things against my neck... I slap my neck in reaction... instead of feeling spider guts between my fingers I felt... laces? I followed the string to find my dads old Adidas shoes... I instantly slipped them over my wet socks. I searched around in the darkness for any sign of clothing of any kind. "A dirty xxl t-shirt? Better than being shirtless I guess," I reasoned. As I slip the shirt over my head my mind flashes back to me wearing my dads' work shirts and the same pair of shoes on fathers day, years ago... when he picked me up and carried me around the house, as if I was as tall and as strong as he was. I remember him tucking me in every time he was lucky enough to be home in time. Even when he wasn't home on time he'd untuck me and tuck me back in and tell me how much he loved me. He didnt have to worry about waking me up because most of the time I pretended to sleep till he got home.
And now here I am... 13 years old and sitting in almost that exact pair of clothes, alone in the cold asking myself if I'm really loved. I wipe the tears out of my eyes and laugh to myself. Of course I'm loved. I begin to have more flashes of memory to those great times when he gave me his full attention.... when he listened intently to everything that came out of my mouth. Following those flashes came a sharp pain in my head and red, angry blackouts of all those times he threatened me, punished me, scolded, or shouted at me. Trying to control myself, I squat down with my head in my hands. My breath unsteady, and my bottom lip quivering, I cry out to anyone, god, a guardian, a sibling, a friend, or even a foe.... "... am I...... loved?" I stand up again with legs shaking as fast as my thoughts race through the circuit that is my complex mind. I wonder about solutions, all I can muster up is death. Death ends it all. No more arguments, no my confusion, no more problems if I was to remove myself from what seemed like a dark, lonely, hollow, cold hearted world. Almost as if Jesus himself had heard exactly what I'd been questioning and reasoning about, the shed door swings open..
My neck snaps towards the open door and reveals the world outside this small section of safety.

There he was.

Sitting upon the lopsided, broken, wooden deck.

I'm nervous, unsure of words even.

He looks up from his hands, cigarette butts surrounding his snow covered shoes. Another dirty cigarette nearly finished hangs from behind one of his index fingers.

That disgusting dart falls from his shaking, burnt, calloused hands into a sensational crash between worlds of fiery ashes, and frozen, crystal-like flakes of snow. He looks up from his hands with an expression I've never seen before on my fathers face. It wasn't aggressive, or disappointed, or even apologetic. It was pure determination coursing through his veins. He pulled something from his pocket and I stepped back, not sure what to expect or wether or not to be afraid...
A  full pack of cigarettes...
He seems to inspect the packaging, a from on his eyes he opens the packet and let the cigarettes pour out and lightly land on the snow.
One by one each of them fall out until he shakes it empty and drops the packaging too.

He flicks out a lighter and instead of lighting it he pulls the top off, pouring it out onto his mess. Intrigued, I lean out of the shed a little to get a better look. A pack of matches is pulled from the bag behind him. After scratching the rep tip across the black strip, flames burst out and into the world just to be tosses onto the cigarettes. The rest of the pack are struck and thrown in as well. He stands up and looked into my eyes a little apologetically.... and stomps out the flames.
The cancer sticks....
The dirty darts,
The horrible, gross, 'smokemakers'...
were officially destroyed.
He crouched down and reached out to my hesitant, stiff, hands.

"Owen...

I love you."

....

"You matter more to me than any stupid cigarette, and you always will. I'll quit. I promise. And I have always kept my promises, haven't I?"

....

I look up, finally ready to look him in the eyes.

"I'm not gonna try to bribe you out or forgive me right away because you're your own person Owen. You're my son, and you can do anything you put your mind to."

...says who?

"Says me, because Owen, you are loved."