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The Childhood He Never Had
November 8, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, novels, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Abuse, Child, Childhood, Forgive, Memory, Regret, Son, Therapy | by davidbdale | 3 comments
At 26, with the assistance of a team of highly-motivated psychological facilitators spending down a healthy post-doctoral research grant, he began to retrieve repressed memories of abuse he had suffered as a five-year-old child. In truth, his age at the time of the abominations is a conjecture, derived from a guess at the height from which he recalls having cowered before his tormentors. Any detailing of the boy’s humiliations would be prurient beyond the scope of our purposes here and likely would violate the rights of his publisher, but on the basis of just one batch of unsubstantiated accusations, which the team felt obligated to report to authorities, the boy’s parents were investigated, ostracized by family and lifelong friends, driven from their jobs, home and neighborhood. Their son’s retrieved memories were vivid, compelling, utterly incontrovertible. Regrettably, we can say no more about them here than that they featured a basement location, both parents, masked or hooded strangers with sharp objects, and a donkey or a drawing of a donkey. A second, more resourceful team of therapists helped resolve these memories to closely coincide with the actual layout of the split-level home of the boy’s childhood. To no avail did the parents insist they never had a basement. The “subterranean” abominations are now understood to have been suffered in the rumpus room with its below-ground aspect. Though he has not returned home since commencing his therapy, the son professes a willingness to forgive or at least indulge the hubris that compels even the most unfit parents to reproduce. A book-length memoir of his earliest memories, which also details the love affair that blossomed, bloomed, attracted pests and ultimately withered between the young man and the therapist who championed his cause, will appear in bookstores in time for the gift-buying season.
Copyright © 1999
Open Closure
October 30, 2006 in 299 Words, Books, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Literature, Poetry, Short stories, Stories, Very Short Novels, Writing | Tags: Breakup, Closure, Drinking, Loss, Separation | by davidbdale | 6 comments
Already the breaking up has lasted longer than the love affair and provided her more pleasure. Another week of breaking up and this will be her most satisfying relationship yet. I’d rather drink and stay out with friends than be with you, he tells her; I never cared about you, and I don’t care about you now. I need some kind of closure, she says. I lied about the job interview, he tells her; I spent those five days sleeping with my ex. We haven’t tried everything yet, she says. I didn’t sleep with her to hurt you, he tells her; I don’t care enough to want to hurt you. I can’t believe you would lie to me when I love you, she says; if you take that job and leave me it will kill your mother; you love me but drinking confuses you. Go away now and leave me alone or do I have to hurt you, he tells her. This is what I don’t understand about men, she says, always pushing away what’s best for you. We were good together for a time, he tells her. Oh yes we were my love, she says. We were good together because you could take me or leave me, he tells her, and I could take you or leave you. I was more to you than that, she says. Don’t make me hurt you, he tells her. I’m coming up there right now, she says; we’ll talk this thing out; you owe me that much. Don’t come, he tells her; I’m drinking tonight and sleeping with my ex. The police are looking for your car, sweet baby, she says; I told them you left here driving drunk; I’ll be there in an hour. Good fuck linding me, he tells her.
Copyright ©1997
Very Short Novels 