the short story project


Whenever I Think of Blyth

It didn’t seem like dad was enjoying the play, even though he was the one who wrote the teleplay. His face was flushed within earnestness. He wrote notes to himself on his arm, whom I admired exceedingly. “more emotion” he stuttered. Anwen looked at him at wonder. I look at dad and I think of grandfather Harry. Harry died sophomore year of cancer. It was lung cancer, pretty brutal. I remember mom cried, and it wasn’t usual. Mother never cries. She is resilient. Unlike dad, whom cries a lot. Mom sat at the table in the basement. She put her hand on her forehead. I saw the tears pool in her eyes. She tried so hard. To stay strong. To not break. But the prettiest smiles have the most woeful stories. She suddenly burst into tears. I watched her and cried as well. I walked to her, dressed in my pajama. She peered at me and smiled. Mother’s emotions and body were never synced. They weren’t going to be. I sat on her legs. Her tears blotted my pajama. She put her head on my shoulder. I passed my hand on her hair. It was soft and nice. And the scene shifts again to the play. “whenever I think of Dalilah, I feel wistful,” says the actor in his deep voice, “Dalilah made me feel like there was a sun waving hello to me.” Dad began crying. He wrote on his arm: “positive: bringing deep and impulsive memories.” I took his arm and held it. one last tear was slowly plummeting down my cheek. Dad looked at me. He smiled. Like mom. Yet, this smile was woeful. It seemed dad and I thought about the same person. He kisses my forehead, whispering: “I love you, Blyth”. “I love you, dad”, I replied, silently. Dad’s smile reminds me of Fleur. Maybe Fleur’s smile was the sign that Fleur and dad’s love was the same. Maybe I love them both. The crowd applauded, and the actors rendered their body forward. I clapped my hands and stood up. I was the only one who stood up. Anwen stood up after me, then mother. Then Klaus blissfully stood up and then dad. Dad had to walk to the stage. He passed through the crowd and walked to the stage. He smiled at the actors and stood in front of a tall table. He took the microphone and strolled around the stage. “um, thank you all, for coming to this play, ‘whenever I think of Dalilah’. Well, this was a very important play to me, it represents the tale of my family, the Grasser family. My wife, Beatrix and I are parents to Klaus, Anwen and Blyth. Our daughter, Blyth, is a suicide survivor.” I seethed within wrath. “but I think the key word here is ‘survivor’, for we think of those who have mental illnesses are weak, or completely insane and selfish. It is not the truth. Because my daughter is strong, and she survived the most horrible experiences. Blyth, you are a true survivor, and we will keep fighting, until we find the remedy. I promise. Come here.” I paced to the stage. Dad said:” you are my Dalilah, and I’m not letting you down.”                                                                     

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