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The Day I Stabbed My Father
September 21st (1936)
There were whispers alright…whispers about me. Whispers about me being a myth. I had become the town’s clown, and I am starting to question my actions of hiding in the my house whether they were the smartest thing I’ve ever done. I can empathise from these children’s view, but can they from mine?
My heart breaks time and time again when I think about the horrid day when my mum ran out of the house, screaming out that I was killing them all because I had stabbed my dad in the leg. I did not. Mum also claimed that when I pulled out the weapon, and wiped it on dad’s pants, I went back to cutting up newspapers for my scrapbook. Sometimes, I feel like I am fighting a battle by myself, and against myself.
Summer had flashed past, and before I knew it, the heavens were sobbing once again. I occupied my time in the mornings by peering outside the window, I would be entranced by star-like white particles landing gracefully onto the cold pavement. My eyes were mesmerised, only to regret the fact that I would not be able to touch these stunning babies of Mother Nature until night fell.
My excitement when night arrived was matched by the caution of the outside world. I did not want to be seen by the children. I was, after all, a monster in their eyes. A person who only came out at night, a tall and scary person who runs along at night eating live possums and cats. I was even known . . . read more.
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