I found this story on Neil Gaiman‘s blog. It simply captivated me.
Neil Gaiman is one of those authors who I greatly admire because of what I’ve seen on their Tumblr or twitter (and possibly a YouTube video or two) but beyond a novel or two, haven’t actually dived into their work. Honestly, I am ashamed of myself for this because when I listen to or read his stories I am always mesmerized. If only I could have a drop of the talent this guy possesses.
This story you can listen to in its full glory above, but for those who can’t watch the video at the moment here’s a little summary: it’s the story of a young Neil Gaiman as he waits to get picked up by his parents at Liverpool station.
I am always amazed at how people can create creative nonfiction and how they can tell stories about that happened thirty odd years ago with such minuscule and gorgeous detail, when I could barely do that about something that happened today. My creative writing teacher loves this kind of work however, I think it’s mostly because it’s easy to teach to those who are just taking it as a fun elective and she’s in the process of publishing her own novel in the same genre.
Nevertheless, this story is one that I really enjoyed. It was told beautifully. It starts off rather simply with a point that I think becomes rather important as the story progresses, he was only sixteen years old when this happened. He related to his audience very well throughout this, and I think that’s where it connected with me. My parents were the type to be late as well, I’ve even had instances similar to this. Not that my parents have ever gone on impromptu trips to Austria… but you get the point.
And I really need to pick up one of his books…
I had enough.
I was tired of this psuedo-love. Where we were spoiled beyond our means but never taught the fundamentals of life. We lived in a fantasy world, built by the delusions of an old man.
He was never here. Working day in and day out. Hour after hour. Coming home past bedtime and leaving before dawn. Occasionally he would be home for dinner, but it was only moments before he retreated into his room. It never made sense, the long hours never seemed to help the poverty we were in.
Everyday he drove to the richest parts of the city, it was always within our grasp but never ours to hold.
She deserved better, it was too late for me. As we turned through the winding streets of the forest preserve, I let the monster unleash. Briefly remembering another time my dad was behind the wheel during a fight.
I almost stopped. Except I couldn’t, this needed to be said. I needed to tell him every horrible feeling I felt. I let go.
We were never the same again.
This piece was edited from a prompt I received in creative writing, I hope you enjoyed it.