Bridger Foote

Stephanie Maenhardt
English 1010
4/21/2019
Flash Narrative
As I look back, it was the hesitation in my voice that gave him the first clue. “Is

something wrong?” my father said, with a sincere look in his eyes. With a stutter, I pushed to get

the words out of my mouth, I had been going over this conversation for months in my head, “I

just need to talk to you about something.” He nodded his head towards the empty seat next to his,

“What is it that you want to talk about?” I was stuck inside my thoughts. Was I brave enough to

do this? How should I tell him? Without a second’s notice, the words poured out of me “Dad I

think I’m gay” Immediately it was like my body shut down. My eyes began to puff, and my face

turned a bright pink. “What did you say?” He gave me a perplexed look, as if to tell me, “I heard

what you said, but I’m going to make you say it again.” I repeated myself, but this time with less

confidence than before, like the whispering of the wind on a rainy day, and the echoing of

thunder clashing in our midst; but the lightning struck me. “I’m gay, dad”.

This time I knew he heard me. His lips pierced, and his eyes homed in on mine, like two

ships of war, we unloaded our artillery. I took on a defensive position as his arm lunged at my

face. The taste of blood ran through my mouth, dripping off my tongue and onto my chest. He hit

me square in the jawline, hard enough that my cheek pressed against my teeth, tearing

increments of flesh wide open. He had never hit me before, and I was stunned.

The rush of adrenaline unearthed a deep seeded rage inside my body, the kind that your

psyche only creates when you’ve spent years pretending and suppressing your true nature. “Fuck

you!” I yelled, as I staggered out of my chair, afraid for my life he might hit me again. The entire
situation felt as if I was having an out of body experience, I couldn’t wrap my head around the

facts. All I knew in this moment was that he was eerily calm for what I had just yelled at him.

“Go to your room and think about what you’ve done. I don’t want to look at you” His words hit

me harder than the strike to my jaw I had received twenty seconds prior. And like that, I walked

away.

The inescapable prison. This is what I call my mind, from time to time. My thoughts

forever lingering about, descending into the deepest corners, where the monster’s dwell. I had

been cornered by my trepidations for nearly 19 years; and now, after I finally found a flicker of

courage to face my fears, I was nothing but the brunt wick of a blown-out candle. The glint of

hope that remained, had then vanished.

Breathing heavily, I laid on my bed, desperately trying to avoid the darkness of my

thoughts. “I’m not good enough. I’m not normal. My father hates me. I’m better off dead.”

Suicide had been a consideration I would often visit, and at this point in my life, I looked to her

the same way I would look for guidance from an old friend.

While taking a blade to my wrist, I contemplated my next action. I stood up off my bed

and found myself face to face with a mirror. I stared at myself, gazing right into my swollen

eyes, but I saw a stranger. A stream of blood had formed, running up and down my shirt, I was

covered in a layer of red. My face freshly bruised, my lips cracked, and my world upside-down. I

peered down at my knife, and then back up into the mirror. “You look insane.” I said to myself. I

resembled that of a killer from a low budget slasher movie that failed at the box office. “What do

I do?” I kept muttering, as if someone were there to display the next course of action.
 At a moment’s notice, my sister swung open my bedroom door, I had time to hide the

knife, but there was little time to hide my shame. My dad, feeling guilty, had apparently gone to

her after our incident, and like the big sister she is, immediately she rushed to my aide. As she

held me in her arms, I began to sob like a child, crying harder than I knew humanly possible.

“Dad’s an asshole” she said, wiping away tears from both our eyes. She proceeded to praise me

of my every being, offering me a palate of unconditional love, the kind I yearned to hear.

In a moment of clarity, I pointed towards the knife. “Please don’t get mad, just take it.”

As she tucked the blade into her empty pocket, a sense of tranquility flourished in the midst of

my mind. Taking hold of my hand, she began tracing my scars with the point of her index finger.

“I will never truly understand what you’re going through, Bridge. But you must understand that I

will never let you go through this alone. Whatever happens next, we face that together.”

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