|Is It Ever Too Late? (standard:non fiction, 1112 words)|
|Author: Lori||Added: Mar 08 2004||Views/Reads: 1812/1027||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|I've re-worked it a little. It's still the story of my father. I just hope it's more understandable now. Thanks for the tips. As always feedback is greatly appreciated.|
Is It Ever Too Late? My mother divorced my father when I was five. He was a “bad” man. He did drugs; woo what a crime that was. He's a terrible man, because he succumbed to the pressures he was feeling and fell into the wrong stuff. At the age of five, I was forced to admit no one was perfect. Not even the one that I love more than anything in the world, my father. My mother was a woman that didn't believe in doing anything illegal. She didn't drink her first taste of alcohol until she was twenty-five. She used to not take an aspirin if she didn't see it come out of the bottle. She was a straight-laced girl. She was the baby of nine children. She did no wrong. I wish sometimes that she were still that person. But that's another story. My father was a Vietnam vet. He was over there for two years fighting for his country. He was drafted and did his duty like an red-blooded american. He was a medic in the Army. He was the one that had to tell the men they would live. You would only see the little hole in the front. But, my father was the one that had to turn the man over to see the huge hole in the back. He came back from Vietnam just like so many others, totally screwed in the head. To hear my mother tell the story, my father was passed out in the living room of our house the day she left him. My brother and I were playing with all the pills he had strode around the room. She says she had no choice but to leave. He had put us in harm's way and that was a BIG no-no. He didn't fight her on it. He just gave up on himself and us. He went on to get married again and had another little boy. My mother and him decided it was best if he left us alone. We didn't see him again for four years. My mother went on to remarry too. Matter of fact, they got married on the same day, the same place, within a half hour of each other. My mother didn't know it for years later. My father never would know about it. She married the man that I call Daddy. I know no other man as a Daddy but him. I love him like he was my blood father. But, he's not my blood father. And, he can never be that. No matter how much either one of us want it. My father would call my mother in the wee hours of the morning. When he was stoned out of his head. He just needed to hear her voice. He would ask about us sometimes. But, he really just called to talk to her. He would have signed the papers to let Tim adopt us. But, Tim said it wouldn't change anything. My brother was named after my father. My name was going to change when I got married. It was just the thought that for a second time, my father was willing to give up his children. A drunk driver killed my father eight days before my tenth birthday. My uncle, aunt, and, him were on the way to pick up some weed when they were hit from behind. The man was going eighty miles an hour. They were going forty-five. My father was thrown 350 feet. He hit a railroad track with his chest. It broke his neck, his jawbone, and crushed his chest. My father lived for an hour and a half in severe pain. There are different stories about that hour and a half. Some say that he talked about his children. Some say that he talked about weed. I hope, for my sake, that he said something about us. I doubt that he did. Drugs had always been more important to him than we were. Why would dying change that? My aunt was thrown 150 feet and hit a telephone pole with her head. She lived with a screw in her head for those eight days. But in the end, her brain had suffered too much trauma. It died before her body did. She left behind a two-year-old child. My uncle was the lucky one. If by lucky you call watching the two people Click here to read the rest of this story (36 more lines)
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