The Calm Before The Storm

Mencoba share the great story yang saya copy dari The Best Ten Story Scinti Contest Desember lalu,.. 

(*saya tidak menang,.. T__T huhuhu,.... :p)

Well, siapa tahu bisa menjadi inspirasi :)

so please read it happily,.. :)

You always hear about love-hate relationships; those “can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without them” wayward members in your life. What if you’re finally faced with that one moment to decide which one you really want? Could you make it?

My father is a hidden shadow, disappearing after every corner. He’s interesting from the things he says to the way he walks, and I’ve never been able to help following that shadow. His moral compass is strong; for the majority of my life, he was placed on a pedestal that spanned far above Mount Olympus. Despite the hundreds of cancelled weekends, and the tears that fell to my pillow because of them, it only made me want him more. It’s funny how things can change from the time you close your eyes, to when you open them again.

Two summers ago, fresh out of the trials and tribulations of eighth grade, I was staying with my father and his high strung girlfriend for a couple of weeks, while my mother was living in our new house in Brentwood. I had just woken up on his, well, technically it’s my mom’s wrap-around couch; the only thing my divorced parents still quarrel about.

The smell of smoke and cooking bacon wafted into the living room, lifting me from that couch and hoisting me into the kitchen, where my father awaited, spatula and milk in each calloused hand. He was clad in a red bandana, wrapped around his graying curled head of hair. A pair of worn cowboy boots the color of burnt sand could be seen around the bottom of the counter, tapping to the beat of a muffled Kansas song. The ashes of a recycled cigarette stub littered the tops of the table; he was using the ash tray for left over bacon grease. How delightful. As I yawned from the usual morning grudge, my hand grazed an empty beer bottle and a folded sheet of paper; a Good Morning note to his girlfriend. He wrote one for her every morning. The empty bottle had slipped into the back of my mind, but I should’ve paid more attention.

It was the first time since I’d moved in with them that he’d made me breakfast, and I’m sure my half-moon smile showed my appreciation. During breakfast he’d sometimes sing along with the song, his deep and scratchy voice paralleling nicely with the hard crack of the drums. It was a morning I’d always wanted; that feeling you get when you know you belong somewhere. How you know someone cares for you even when not a single word comes out of their mouth. I was so sure that day was going to be one of my best; I would remember it forever.

Soon afterward he led me into the place I had awaken, his arms swinging to and fro, shoulders up and down; the perfect imitation of an avid six year old. Following his lead, I lumbered after him, laughing at what it must’ve looked like to see this from outside the windows. I was unsure of our plans for today; he usually played cyber golf or scanned around various news channels, complaining about the obvious conspiracies happening right behind the television screen. He had an innate sense of paranoia about him, emitting from the slur in his voice to the glint that sparkled in his eye. It only added to his charm.

Taking advantage of this moment, while I contemplated how our day would unfold, he strained to grasp the neck of a pristine Fender, and besides the splattered paint etching the face of the guitar, it was immaculate. The cracking paint was what made it my father’s, though. My mouth continued to stay complacently in a state of awe and confusion, not only when he pulled it over the couch, but also as he toted it outside of the house, set it on the porch table, and then began dousing it with everything from oil to mustard. I sat silently on one of the stools, knowing at some point he’d have to stop and clarify what the point of this madness was. It took a few cloths and cleaning liquid, a sponge, and several other household utilities for me to understand what he was doing. He wanted me to clean his guitar. Why? I had no idea.

“You must feel the spirits surround your soul as you wipe away the dirt. Breathe in nature’s true cleansing power, and breath it out through your hands. Let the spirits of the world, and the indians of our past immerse you in a burning passion of strength. Hum the chants of your great eagle ancestors and feel the beats of the guitar as you become one with the music of your mind.” Basically, it was The Karate Kid for Native Americans.

I felt ridiculous, and saw no point in this activity what so ever, but he nodded his head encouragingly as he took a swig of a freshly opened can of beer. I would’ve jumped off of bridge for him, if only to get his approval, so I wiped on and wiped off and then… he did the equivalent of knighting me. My daddy untied the red bandana from his head and gently, oh so gently, placed it atop of my own, standing back to relish in his handiwork. I never thought I could feel so proud about cleaning a piece of wood.

The sun was beginning to wane and a brief wind whispered through the yard, strong enough to send his now empty beer can stumbling off of the table. He used this as an excuse to go retrieve two others, giving me a thumbs up sign as he sauntered back.

I suppose he saw the look of apprehension and anxiety cross my face, but dismissively replied to my silent accusation, “I only drink when I’m enjoying myself, sweet pea!” He chuckled and gave a crooked little smile, slapping me playfully on the shoulder. A little voice in the back of my head raised up that caution sign, but before the hairs on the back of my neck could rise I rolled up the thought and threw it away; there was no way I was going to let something ruin this connection with my dad.

Of course, nothing ever works out how you want it to. The situation soon became a set of dominos, and because I accidentally brushed one of them over with that one look of apprehension, the rest would obviously follow suit. It began with me refusing to take a drive with him to the lake; I knew he’d had a bit too much to drink, and his Jack Sparrow-esque demeanor didn’t help his case. I was also becoming more and more resentful of this task that I’d been doing for over three hours, and made the pivotal mistake of asking him why in the world I needed to hum eagle chants while cleaning a stupid, worthless, and ridiculous piece of wood.

“What does cleaning a guitar, building a relationship with a stupid guitar, have anything to do with actually playing the guitar?!?” His face went cold, but not before I saw the sting in his eyes. It hurt him. It lasted a split-second, but it was there, and as soon as I said it I knew I shouldn’t have. Before an apology could fumble out of my mouth, his finger pointed dejectedly and mechanically towards the door, his face staring numbly at the guitar. I didn’t speak a word.

I heard him before I saw him; the crack of a thrown beer bottle hitting pavement. One, two, three bottles, each new smash causing me to flinch. When he came back into the house, he was gone. Not physically, oh no, physically he was most certainly visible. His glazed eyes, almost a yellow hue, followed his swaying and clearly unstable body into the living room, where I sat dazed on the couch. Mentally, though, the man, who just hours ago had sat with me on this couch, smiling and laughing with his daughter, had disappeared. It was about this time that I usually just began to cry.

For some odd reason though, the tears didn’t come. Instead, as he sat next to me, nearly missing the couch entirely, a fire pulsed through me. Then he spoke the words that changed everything,

“What don’t you like about me?”

The sparkling glint in his eyes was gone. They were blank. It made answering him almost easier, in a sick way. And in that moment that stood betwixt his question and my response, I thought the fear was going to set in my throat. That fear that has never given me the ability to speak to my father about this topic without tears eating at my cheeks. It wasn’t there. In that moment, when my eyes closed and my breath slowed, I realized my strength. It consumed me.

“When you drink. I hate you when you drink.”

“Why?”

“Because you aren’t my father.” It was then that the tears began. Because the truth in those words was so immense, so obvious. It was also then that I realized the worse had not come. He sat there, his head in his hands, silent. Quiet. And I knew, it was the calm before the storm.

“Get out.” They were simple words, but for some reason, I wasn’t connecting the dots. I didn’t understand. He repeated them over and over, the only thing that changed was the volume he spoke in. He screamed at me to leave.

Grabbing me by the arm, he dragged me into the kitchen, through the back door and onto the porch. Like the clouds knew this was a time for rain, it poured. And so I stood there, in the rain, each phrase leaving my father’s mouth like a whiplash to my back.

“You’re a whore. You’re a slut. I thought I loved you. I thought you were my daughter.”

“You aren’t my daughter. You mean nothing to me. Now LEAVE! And don’t you ever come back, you little piece of scum.” He walked back inside, slamming the door behind him, and I fell backwards into the mud, and still the rain poured. I didn’t care. I could no longer differentiate the tears from the rain. I wanted to die. I needed to feel nothing, because this pain was agony. He didn’t love me. The words were an incessant broken record in my mind, and I hit myself over and over, trying to be rid of them. They wouldn’t go away. My breathing became staggered and rushed, and I wanted so badly to run back to him. I would beat on the doors for him. He didn’t want me. He didn’t need me.

As I was thinking this, I realized, I didn’t need him. I didn’t need to beat on the doors for him. I didn’t need to be afraid anymore. I was here because I chose to be. I made that decision. And I could choose to sit here and cry. Or I could stand up and walk away. Which one do you think I did?

It’s been two years since that day, when I found the ability in myself to stand up. I obviously had plans to never speak to him again, but they were soon blown away by my mom, who made us reconcile the next day. His tears of remorse were enough for me. I loved him. He taught me one of the most valuable lessons I’ve ever learned; to accept others. I’ve come to accept him for the very fallible man that he is, but he’s my father, and there’ s no throwing that in the mud.

Like this story? To vote for this story, simply go to our Facebook fan page, “like” Scinti, scroll down the page, and “like” this story. For more detail instructions on voting, please go here.