October 4th 2015
Everything was good. At school, I had three “F”s, two “D”s, and an “A”. At home, I had a stepmother, little sister, and a dad who loved me. We had also recently got a new addition to the family, a 1977 Vespa. To my Dad the Vespa had become an obsession; every time we went out, it would be to a hardware shop so that he could get a new part for his new child. These constant trips out were great—the thing about most hardware shops is they usually sell really good candy, so for a couple months, my life revolved around constant snack-runs. I realize now that it was never about the food, I just enjoyed spending time with him.
Life does this great thing in that when you’ve gotten into a nice routine that you like, it starts pelting metaphorical rocks at you until you are left on your back without the strength to get up. I had a nice routine—I never did homework, went for constant snack runs, took guitar lessons, and occasionally I would create a piece of art. Everything was good. But then , as you might have guessed, the metaphorical rocks came flying straight at my face.
On May 23rd, 2014, my Dad picked me up from school. When we got home, neither my stepmum nor sister were there; this would give me some time to read (or well, to do whatever I wanted) as my dad was leaving almost immediately to go mountain biking with his friend. I didn’t think much of this as it was something he did often. After my Dad had been gone for a while, my stepmum and little sister came home. They talked to me for some time (they both have a gift for talking, which could also be perceived as a talking problem, but after living with them for awhile, you learn to listen without actually hearing anything.)
Thankfully, they were interrupted by the doorbell. I thought my Dad was finally home so I ran to get the door and swiftly opened it. The person standing there was not my dad but a police woman dressed in the usual deep green uniform. As soon as my mind had registered what I was seeing, all I could think was: “Why? What did I do?”
I was frozen. After an awkward couple of seconds, she asked me in a sad voice, “Is your Mom home?”
Of course my mother wasn’t home. She lived in New Zealand, but of course that’s not what she meant, so I called for my stepmom and she came. As soon as she had gotten to the door, the police lady started to speak once more. “Does Chris Adams live here?” she questioned.
My stepmom replied, “No, but his friend does.” She was referring to my dad. Chris was my dad’s friend that he had gone mountain biking with.
“Well do you know who the blue scooter belongs to?” the policewoman continued.
“The scooter belongs to my husband.” My step mom’s voice was trembling. The constant droning of the freeway seemed to be louder than before. The sound was growing, and along with it, my fear. The droning of cars was so peaceful though, so it was all I wanted to hear. I didn’t want to hear the conversation that was unfolding in front of me, but that would have been impossible.
“Was there an accident?” She asked it, the one question I didn’t want to hear because I was afraid of the answer. I tried to run away, but I was frozen, unable to move, and the droning of the cars was suddenly gone, leaving only an obnoxious silence.