This is a short story I wrote recently. I don't know what possessed me to write it from the perspective of a teenage girl (a foul mouthed one at that), but I did. I started thinking on it as I watched my little daughter watching me get ready for work. It has some strong language, so if you are offended by such, you probably shouldn't read on.
I remember the last time I saw my father. He was getting ready for work, tying a black and blue striped tie around the well starched collar of his oxford shirt. I was lounging on my parents’ bed, mommy still half asleep next to me. My dad smiled lovingly at me and said, “What do think of this one, Sweetpea?”
He always called me Sweetpea, I loved it. I thought he looked beautiful standing there in front of his closet that morning. I miss him so much, life changed dramatically after he was recruited.
“How old were you when you last saw your father?” The man sitting across the steel table asked me. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he didn’t believe anything I was telling him. I had told these assholes my story a hundred times already. It was always the same thing, condescending looks accompanied by long exasperated breaths. Honestly, I couldn’t figure out why they kept bothering with me, its not like I was going to change the facts.
“I told you, I was seventeen months old. My dad was thirty three, just like Christ.”
“Jesus Christ? Do you think your dad was like Jesus Christ?” the dumbass asked, looking at me over his pretentious wire rimmed glasses. His pristine white jacket was practically blinding me. Why was everything so sterile here?
“No,” I spoke slowly as if to a child, “My dad was not like Jesus Christ. He just was thirty three when he was recruited. Jesus was thirty three when he was crucified by the Romans.”
“Ah, I see.” They said that a lot. I thought I may just gouge out the eyes of the next person to say that to me.
My name is Alyssa Lattimer. And I do remember seeing my dad for the last time when I was seventeen months old, despite the fact that everyone, including my own mother, tells me that that is an impossibility. They say that I have taken what I have heard others say about my dad, and created this memory. Whatever... that is a load of horse shit. My father was special, that is why he was recruited. He had a way with people, the type of guy that absolutely everyone liked, a real natural leader. I am special too, that is why I can remember him. That, and sometimes I still get to talk to him.
“So, when you say he got recruited, tell me what that means,” white coat asshole droned.
“It means that he was needed elsewhere. He is a major player in the upcoming War. He is making preparations, training new recruits, and before too long I’ll get called up too.” I replied, as I had so many other times. I was pretty sure they were recording these interviews with a camera just on the other side of the one way mirror in the room. Couldn’t they just watch the re-runs?
I still hadn’t quite figured out what this place was. It could be some sort of prison, and I had been detained by the enemy. That did make some sense, as I knew they wanted to keep me from recruitment. If their plan was to hold me here until the War was over, preventing my recruitment, it wouldn’t work. My dad would find me.
“Alyssa,” the self important dick said, “your father is dead. He died fifteen years ago in a car accident on his way to work. He was the victim of a drunk driver.”
Maybe this was a test, and this wasn’t an enemy detention center. Could this prick sitting across from me be a recruiter? Seeing if I would crack under pressure and accept this horse shit story? They were going to have to do better than this if that were the case. I have seen reality, and I know that the mundane existence that most humankind believes is real, is nothing more than a thin veil of lies. We are at war, our very souls the spoils. Perhaps this shithead across from me didn’t know? Could he be just one of the sheep, blindly going where he was lead? That was another possibility to consider, that I was still just stuck in the lie.
How had I gotten here? They kept trying to get me to take pills. They brought them to me in these flimsy little paper ramekins. Man, they must really think me stupid. True, I was only sixteen years old but, like I said; I am special.
“Alyssa,” asswipe said, snapping his fingers in front of me, “are you listening?”
“Yes, asshole,” I retorted, losing my cool for a second, “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I heard your question, I was just thinking of something else.”
“What were you thinking of?” the man asked. They did that a lot too, abandoning their original questions to me to pursue something else that I mentioned. They all seemed a little scatterbrained.
“No, I’ll answer your original question,” I guided him back on track, “I know that the story is that my dad was killed in a car accident. I know that he hasn’t been in the lie for the past fifteen years. He is behind the veil, in the Real. Where what really matters is happening.”
He just looked at me stupidly. I was beginning to think that I probably was still stuck in the lie. This guy was so oblivious to what was actually going down, or he was a great actor.
“Alyssa, tell me about your wrists,” he said.
I looked down at my wrists, both of which were sitting in my lap. At first, the bandages there confused me. Thick pads of gauze ran from just under each wrist halfway to my elbows, held in place by a healthy wrapping of medical tape. Ah, yes. That is how I got here. I tried to hasten my recruitment, apparently that is not allowed. My dad told me that shortly after I gave it a try.
He always called me Sweetpea, I loved it. I thought he looked beautiful standing there in front of his closet that morning. I miss him so much, life changed dramatically after he was recruited.
“How old were you when you last saw your father?” The man sitting across the steel table asked me. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he didn’t believe anything I was telling him. I had told these assholes my story a hundred times already. It was always the same thing, condescending looks accompanied by long exasperated breaths. Honestly, I couldn’t figure out why they kept bothering with me, its not like I was going to change the facts.
“I told you, I was seventeen months old. My dad was thirty three, just like Christ.”
“Jesus Christ? Do you think your dad was like Jesus Christ?” the dumbass asked, looking at me over his pretentious wire rimmed glasses. His pristine white jacket was practically blinding me. Why was everything so sterile here?
“No,” I spoke slowly as if to a child, “My dad was not like Jesus Christ. He just was thirty three when he was recruited. Jesus was thirty three when he was crucified by the Romans.”
“Ah, I see.” They said that a lot. I thought I may just gouge out the eyes of the next person to say that to me.
My name is Alyssa Lattimer. And I do remember seeing my dad for the last time when I was seventeen months old, despite the fact that everyone, including my own mother, tells me that that is an impossibility. They say that I have taken what I have heard others say about my dad, and created this memory. Whatever... that is a load of horse shit. My father was special, that is why he was recruited. He had a way with people, the type of guy that absolutely everyone liked, a real natural leader. I am special too, that is why I can remember him. That, and sometimes I still get to talk to him.
“So, when you say he got recruited, tell me what that means,” white coat asshole droned.
“It means that he was needed elsewhere. He is a major player in the upcoming War. He is making preparations, training new recruits, and before too long I’ll get called up too.” I replied, as I had so many other times. I was pretty sure they were recording these interviews with a camera just on the other side of the one way mirror in the room. Couldn’t they just watch the re-runs?
I still hadn’t quite figured out what this place was. It could be some sort of prison, and I had been detained by the enemy. That did make some sense, as I knew they wanted to keep me from recruitment. If their plan was to hold me here until the War was over, preventing my recruitment, it wouldn’t work. My dad would find me.
“Alyssa,” the self important dick said, “your father is dead. He died fifteen years ago in a car accident on his way to work. He was the victim of a drunk driver.”
Maybe this was a test, and this wasn’t an enemy detention center. Could this prick sitting across from me be a recruiter? Seeing if I would crack under pressure and accept this horse shit story? They were going to have to do better than this if that were the case. I have seen reality, and I know that the mundane existence that most humankind believes is real, is nothing more than a thin veil of lies. We are at war, our very souls the spoils. Perhaps this shithead across from me didn’t know? Could he be just one of the sheep, blindly going where he was lead? That was another possibility to consider, that I was still just stuck in the lie.
How had I gotten here? They kept trying to get me to take pills. They brought them to me in these flimsy little paper ramekins. Man, they must really think me stupid. True, I was only sixteen years old but, like I said; I am special.
“Alyssa,” asswipe said, snapping his fingers in front of me, “are you listening?”
“Yes, asshole,” I retorted, losing my cool for a second, “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I heard your question, I was just thinking of something else.”
“What were you thinking of?” the man asked. They did that a lot too, abandoning their original questions to me to pursue something else that I mentioned. They all seemed a little scatterbrained.
“No, I’ll answer your original question,” I guided him back on track, “I know that the story is that my dad was killed in a car accident. I know that he hasn’t been in the lie for the past fifteen years. He is behind the veil, in the Real. Where what really matters is happening.”
He just looked at me stupidly. I was beginning to think that I probably was still stuck in the lie. This guy was so oblivious to what was actually going down, or he was a great actor.
“Alyssa, tell me about your wrists,” he said.
I looked down at my wrists, both of which were sitting in my lap. At first, the bandages there confused me. Thick pads of gauze ran from just under each wrist halfway to my elbows, held in place by a healthy wrapping of medical tape. Ah, yes. That is how I got here. I tried to hasten my recruitment, apparently that is not allowed. My dad told me that shortly after I gave it a try.
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