Scene 8

It has come to this. This is my biography. My testimony if you will. In the simplest terms possible. After all, I'm not the writer in this family. I'm the guardian. The protector. The leader. I'm the one with all the answers. And so I know everything. Most days anyways. But sometimes, every once in a while, I wonder how I ended up where I am.

Sometimes I pause, for a just a second, the hammer in mid swing- ready to fall. And I think "when did this become my life"? When did this become their life? When did this become America?

Sometimes I try to remember life before this. Life before the streetlights. Life before the rumble and the church and the murder and hitting Pony. Life before being orphans. And I realize- with a rush of anxiety one gets when they discover their child is missing- that I can't remember. That I can't remember when my life wasn't broken down into seven discombobulated scenes.

That I can't recall my father's voice or my mother's scent or the family vacations I'm sure we had. And I know, at least part of me knows, that maybe it's because I don't want to remember. That maybe all I want to remember is being an outsider.

Being an alien.

Being a Curtis.

Because at least I know, even after all we've been through, that we are a family. If perhaps, a little bit broken.


That's it. This concludes my writing-in-overly-emotional-drabbles fling. Now I'll finish writing the last two chapters of my one (and only) vampire story Kings and Aces. After that, if any of you have any suggestions for stories you would like to read- send them my way. I'll try to get them written for you. Thanks-