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Getting Through : Creative Writing

Still Dreaming

from cass&eman - Friday, May 18, 2007
accessed 692 times

A recap of memories that have yet to fade a glimpse of my mind and the things that rush feverishly through my brain

“Why is it raining on that side and not this one?” “Because we are on the other side of the border.” “Oh”. In the inquisitive mind of a six year old this was a good question.
Soon we would cross that border, my brother would not be with us. He was to live with his father. “Where Boys Belonged.” My mother told me.
“ Those clouds are called nuves pasajeras” Said my new tio, “Because they rain hard but do not last long.” He continued.
Soon I would see things I had never seen. Learn new languages. Minister to all the godless masses. “This will be good for us my mother reassured me.” I was only six but it had to be better than where I came from. My baby sister would come with us to. We moved from Lorado, to Yucatan, Motery, Guatemala, then to Mexico City and finally back to the States.
We suffered unspeakable horrors that are not mentioned in polite society. At least that’s what I was told when I asked for help. I would be sold for money and, forced to sell things for money. In the name of god of course because this was his will and I was not to speak out against him. What little I can remember is this: I was sent away for weeks on end with my "Uncles”.
Sometimes an admirer would offer money to further our cause, if of course he could have some time alone with me.
By the time I got back to the states I was convinced that It was gods will for me to be hurt and that no matter what happened to me it could never get worse. Death was a friend that I had long awaited. I was 11 I had attempted suicide three times by now. “But it might be ok” I told myself I would see my dad. (He was not really my dad) (TO HIS CREDIT HE WAS THERE FROM BIRTH TO AGE SIX. My mom met him and joined TF)
He would leave my mother and his two-bio kids for Tia Maria. It was then that my mother became totally dependant on TF and moved to Mexico.
In Mexico I watched helplessly as my sister was beaten for crying when my mother left the room. I would turn my head in shame as they poured the juice from jalapeno, down her throat all the while she screamed. Its just Satan in her we have to drive him out” they would say,
She was two. I tried to protect her but was beat for interfering. I did not know what to do.
I believe that to this day she hates me for not helping her. I was seven but felt that I could have done something. I know now that there was nothing else I could have done for her.
During this time my younger brother was living out his own nightmares. As the reminder of a former love he soon became the outlet of our stepmother's hate. I don’t know what she put him thorough; I only know what happened to him later. Many things would happen after Mexico. We (my mom and my sisters) would move back to the States. We would live with a few people. Eventually TF would abandon her because she decided not to move again and tried to settle.
The doctrines and ideas would stay with her. When I was 12 I saw a Geraldo show about TF I would begin to realize that I could say no. This newfound independence did not sit well with my mother. My mom would kick me out, stab me, choke me, and disown me in one year. I would live on the streets I would learn that if you did not yell scream and kick "no" did not matter. I would learn about bikers and hobos, pimps and drug addicts. Things would start to look up. I would have my first apartment. I would be engaged at 16 he was 20. (Unemployed depressed and psychotic NOS with a seizure disorder, it would take three years for me to realize that he was not normal, four to realize that he was a meth addict.)
He would repeat my past, and cause the same pains. He would swear that he cared. I would find his needles. I would have a son at 18. I would pull away and I would take care of him. “No one will hurt you,” I swore.
Soon my mom would leave to meet an old friend and family that she had across county. Soon I would be alone again. I would believe him when he said he had changed. I would take him back. Neighbors would tell me that I did not need to put up with him. That “I” could leave him. I would go to a shelter. He would find me. I would move. He would to. We would get married, (He swore was clean now and it was supposed to be ok) Three days later I would wake up to the phone ringing. “He” would say, “this is officer _______” "Are you mis. *&^$$%?" I would say "Yes I am", "Why?" he would say “Are you Emmanuel Sullivan’s Sister" "Yes Why?" "Something has happened to him." He coldly stated.
I would say "what hospital is he in is he ok?" He would say, "He is dead" Those words rolled off his tong like an icicle falling from the eve of a roof and landing quietly in the snow.
I have a picture of my brother and my son one of the only times we were happy. The only Christmas that I can remember us together.
My Mom would come back after I had made all of the arrangements. She played the savior and pretend to all that she could make it go away. His father would offer to take his ashes but only if he could turn the urn into a lamp so that his new wife would not notice the ashes so his dead son. I would hear from his father one last time. He would promise to send money as long as I did not try to contact him. He said that his wife did not understand.
I would get drunk after my brother died, and I would call my X to walk me home. I don’t know what happened that night just that now I have a daughter that love her more that anything so it does not matter now. She is my hope my son is my pride. My ex is still my burden and the few things that meant a lot to him in my dining room, in an oak box, in a glass case, surround my brother’s ashes. My mother has yet to come back. Now there am just me… again. I have my son and, my daughter. My X has moved to the coast. My sisters call when they need advice but other than the three or four times a year that they call I do not see them either. I have a younger brother but since my mom remarried she hardly lets me talk to him. I haven’t seen him since our brother’s funeral. I now own a home I have a good job and I hope, to help others but when it rains all I can remember is the pain it brings.

They lied, by the way. Some clouds do not pass.

Reader's comments on this article

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from Cloud Passenger
Tuesday, June 05, 2007 - 21:37


I identify with you more than I can say.

You are right, they lied; some clouds do not pass. Lately it makes more sense to me to embrace the aesthetic of the melancholy that seems to follow me like my shadow, or to precede me, like my shadow, depending on where that alien sun happens to be. But I, too, shall pass.

The rest is silence.
(reply to this comment)

From vix
Wednesday, June 06, 2007, 08:47


I love the delicacy with which you expressed that thought, and I understand and admire the wisdom of it.

(reply to this comment

From cass&eman
Thursday, June 07, 2007, 19:10

Thank you(reply to this comment
from rainy
Wednesday, May 23, 2007 - 01:23

tears for you, Cass.
(reply to this comment)
from vix
Tuesday, May 22, 2007 - 06:47


Emotionally jarring, brilliantly evocative. I wish you peace of mind and cleansing rain from those ever-present clouds.

(reply to this comment)

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