Journal Entry 2A Story by Knightingale Just my life being back home after five years away...
So...I ran away. Not something I really like to admit, but the way I look at it is this: why lie in your own journal? I should probably backtrack a little and catch everyone up to what's happened since my first entry.
I arrived home in Blythewood a few days back at a little past one in the morning. This was fine by me, since I really didn't want to draw too much attention to my homecoming in the first place. Ernie, the local bus driver (he also works at the cemetery as grounds-keeper and the high school as janitor) was able to give me a lift out to my old house. It's a good twenty minutes out of town and if it wasn't for that reason, I would have walked. Ernie isn't known for his discretion, but rather for frequenting the local bars and talking gossip to any that'll spare an ear. Even with the fact that he quit drinking twenty years back. The drive consisted of him trying to get a good bar story out of me. "Some have been sayin you went out and died due to unsavory dealings with them Hispanics in May-He-Co," he even said at one point. By some said, I simply translated as "I said" and decided to leave it alone. I cut him off by saying I joined the Army and didn't want to talk about it. Lyings a sin, I know, but I didn't feel like talking to him all night about my travels. Anyways, he would have filled in the conversation with whatever he wanted later. I wish I had a better way of describing how I felt when I got home. Numb nostalgia might sum it up. I don't think it sunk in right away. The last time I was here was right after my mom's funeral when the lawyer read off the will. It's still hard thinking of the house as my own. I spend most of my time in the garage. The next morning I got two visits. The first one I was expecting. It was around ten when the truck showed up and dropped off my bike. I might put up some pictures later. She's a Ducati, one of those cafe racers. I drove all around France on this baby. So imagine my horror when I found it beat up to hell and with the words "Brûle en enfer" spraypainted across the side. Arabelle's brother must have got a hold of it before it got shipped. Believe me when I say this. That...man...is...a psyhopath. I was in the middle of scrubbing thr paint off and trying to assess the damage when my second visitor arrived. Terry has been driving the same beat up white custom Ford truck since junior year. I recognized it coming up for a good mile before it got to me. Terry looked pretty much the same. Torn, faded blue jeans and a white tank top, with a baseball cap placed backwards over sandy blonde hair that comes out in tuffs over his ears. He even had the same s**t-eating grin on his face. Well, he's sporting a full beard now, which I pointed out to him made him look less like his normal red-neck self and more like a mountain man or a member of a folk band. He said I sounded funny and wanted to know if the Army stationed me somewhere with pretty foreign chicks. Good ol' Ernie must have told half the town my little white lie by breakfast. I've cleared it up and everyone knows better now. Except maybe Ernie. I think he prefers the fiction. Terry helps run the local mechanic shop and has promised to help me fix my bike there. Help as in let me use the tools while I work. We loaded it up in his truck and we took it into town. I'll admit I was nervous the whole drive. You spend five years away from home, a town where most everyone knows most everyone, and tell me you aren't nervous when you go back. Plus...she was back. One of the first things Terry mentioned was that Lana was back in town. She showed up about two weeks before me. Lana was my...well, she was the first girl...damn its not that hard to say. I dated her through all of high school. We were friends for years before that. But more important than that, she's the reason I started writing. Her dad owned the bookstore right across the street from my mom's shop. I remember her nose was always buried in a book. Smart, beautiful, and more importantly...way out of my league. I was eleven when I wrote my first poem. I'd write a new one about every week and I'd slip them into the pages of one of her books. Cheesy, I know. But I used to be really shy as a kid. When we were in the eighth grade she read my notebook with all my poems. We dated all the way to high school graduation. She went to University and I went to community college and...well, you know how that goes. In a way I guess I've always credited her to my writing. And seeing her was one of those things I wasn't prepared for right away. So I'll admit it. I saw her and...I dipped. Right out of the back of the auto shop. Terry asked me later where I went and I said I had something I needed to do. I've seen her a few times since then, but we haven't spoken. Truthfully? I still miss Ari. And all this is way too much to handle all at one moment. It seems running away is a personality fault I've developed without realizing. There is one thing I haven't been able to avoid. Mom's grave. I visit it every day. I tell her about France and India and my travels. I felt silly the first time, but...is it strange that I think she listens? I don't know. I'm working on my book again. Polishing it up and trying to find the ending. I guess I've always had a problem with wrapping things up... © 2013 KnightingaleAuthor's Note
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6 Reviews Added on August 8, 2013 Last Updated on August 8, 2013 Author
KnightingaleBlythewood, SCAboutI enjoy writing about life. Attempting to capture moments. Sometimes I write poems, sometimes stories. While some of my materials may sound morbid or cynical, I'm truly a romantic at heart. Unfortunat.. more..Writing
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