Undergraduate / NYU Tisch Film and Television Personal Story Essay - grammar / good storytelling? [8]

Surrounded

I'm surrounded by blue. Moonlight leaks through spread curtains. Rain streams down the window, tears down my face. Where's mommy? I toss, I turn. The clock reads 12:05 A.M. My dad snores.

We rush through the packed parking lot. I catch a glimpse of the starting time, as we hurry past the box office. 7:15 flickers faintly through the haze, no 6:15, or is it 7:45? I'm not sure; my vision isn't the best-- I really need glasses. We arrive just as it's beginning, the smell of freshly popped popcorn lingers in the air. The only seats available are in the front. We flock to our designated destination and begin our viewing experience. All four of us, heads cocked at 50 degree angles, watch with glazed eyes as Optimus Prime's booming voice echoes throughout the theater. My sister, who is sat to my left, trembles with fear. What a baby. My mom sits to my right, her boyfriend next to her. Which one is this? One? Two? It doesn't matter, none of them are as good as Dad. I've never been shot before, but hearing your mom being verbally abused is the closest thing one can feel to being shot right in the heart. But neither guns nor shouting are allowed at movie theaters, and for this I'm glad because for once, we are happy-- content.

I lie in bed replaying it like an old vhs tape. There was so much of it. Smeared on the pavement, splattered on the car. My memories are painted red. I turn my attention to the ceiling. The trees begin to make shadows. I am distracted. The leaves dance across the plaster, creating my own mini motion picture. For a moment, I forget about it all. Then the red leaks in again. I close my eyes, sending tears down my cheeks.

First comes the rain, then the arguing. We escaped the theatre with smiles on our faces, discussing our favorite parts, but before we got to the car they were at it. They are shouting now. My sister cries as the car starts. As we cruise down the highway, the argument rides a crescendo until we reach his house. He pulls in across the street, turns off the car, and we sit. The argument persists. My mom's voice cracks and I feel it in my heart. I hate him. I see his finger pointing at my her, as his voice grows louder, darker. They leave the car and continue the bout on the other side of the street, near his house. A car drives by. The street lights flicker orange onto the wet pavement, as the remnants from independence day explode in the distance.

My feet, cold with sweat, dampen the thick sheets. I am terrified. Questions begin running through my mind. What if they saw me? Do they know where I live? What if they come here to finish the job? Thunder sends vibrations through the house. My dad's snoring is silenced with the touch of my cold, damp hand. "Dad, I'm scared", I confess. "Don't worry about it, nothing's gonna happen. Go to sleep" he replies. He rolls over and the snoring starts again. I roll over, rewind and replay the scene in my head.

My sister is still crying. God knows why. Her soprano pitch shrieks compete for my attention with the shouts of the argument across the street. It's a tough battle, but the argument edges out the victory. I rest my head against the glass and gaze across the street, too tired to be angry. A car drives by and I hear a firework. A Black Cat maybe? No, I've lit Black Cats before and they don't spark, this one did. Black cats aren't this loud either. The only things louder are the screams. I feel it in my chest. His body falls life-less onto the pavement. I don't know what's happening. My sister's cries grow louder. I finally see my mom. The look of terror on her face finds its way onto mine, as I realize it all. She is on her knees crying behind his body, surrounded by red. Both her life and heart are broken. She rushes over to the car and moves it to the side of his house. I don't know why. As I begin to piece it all together, I recall finding his gun under my couch just weeks before. I begin to cry. My mom gets out and calls 911. Before I know it, the car is enveloped with blue and red.

The rain has stopped and so have my tears. The bed is hot and the air is still. I feel numb. The loss that my mom is undoubtedly feeling now brings me physical pain. I can feel it creeping into my chest. But the inevitable justice served tonight silences the pain. I've always been good at math, but it doesn't take a mathematician to know that a loved one's pain minus the rightful justice served to their abuser equals numb. Does that make me a bad person, a heartless pesron? I lie staring, as confusion and self doubt hang over me like a black cloud.

I'm led into a small, colorful room. A gaudy, floral couch lie in the middle, surrounded by stuffed animals and toys. The man in the suit tells me that i can lay on it. "No, i'm okay" I reply shakily. He gives me a look and sits down. He begins to ask. One month removed from the shooting and people are still asking questions. "Do you happen to remember the color of the car?" he asks. "Yea, I think it was a black truck" I lied. It was really dark and my vision isn't the best-- I really need glasses. He continues to press, unearthing weeks of buried memories. I feel weak, vulnerable, unaffected by my friendly, colorful surroundings. I am no longer a boy, but not yet a man. I am surrounded by black.