Okay, I know I haven't posted here in...like...forever; I just recently wanted to check if I had one of my old stories posted here because I want to re-type it and can't remember all the characters. Anyway, I've been tempted to post this (I guess you could say it's my most recent piece of work). So, feedback is appreciated, and I hope you like it :)

Storyteller
Leah’s life is plagued by turmoil. Her father is a verbally abusive alcoholic one step away from being detoxified, her mother is left deflated after being disowned by her religious family, her teacher is having steamy affairs with five of his students, her principal kills children and cunningly hides their lifeless bodies within the school grounds, and her mother’s boyfriend wants to murder her. But it’s not easy deciphering what is reality and what is imaginative in the world of Leah Rochester. She is known to be a compulsive liar, a narrator who is inconsistent, contradictive and continuously making up ridiculous, far-fetched stories. Is it real? Is it purely fiction? Leah’s depiction of reality is tainted by drama; violence, abuse, death and pain – a pain she truly feels, and creatively channels towards provoking sympathy from those around her. Her parents know she’s getting worse, the teachers at school are exasperated, and her friends are beginning to grow tired of her antics. To Leah, it seems only one fib is enough to build a tributary of lies. But, as Leah says herself, it doesn’t matter what you think the truth is, she knows what really happened.
Genre: Drama
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, violence, brief sexual content and drug use

_______

My name is Leah Rochester, & I’m a compulsive liar.

Like a support group to banish me of my consistent fabrications; my dad always tells me I need help, to confront my habit. But I don’t need help. I’m not a liar; I’m a master storyteller. I’m a genius of fiction, an author filled with imagination & creativity. I’m a girl who is detached from reality, who is overwhelmed by a world of fantasy.

It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. I know what’s true & what isn’t.

~

1977

Sunday February 20th

Nothing ever happens here. I’m trapped in home of monotony, overcome by eagerness, hoping something will grab my interest. But I live in a small apartment, surrounded by whiteness, crisp & clean, my mother’s anal-retentiveness hasn’t vanished. Dad left everything the way it was, even though mom is gone. My bubble of sadness from our loss eventually burst into smouldering flames of resentment towards my father. Sometimes I hate him. Sometimes I really hate him. He’s like two different people, sober dad & inebriated dad. Nothing is more confiding than feeling that wonderful sensation of a fizzy, golden, lukewarm substance slowly warming your insides & easing your anxieties. But it’s not a real feeling, it’s artificial. But sometimes people can’t face their problems & they let the tidal waves of bliss wash it away.

Sober dad is friendly. Sober dad is forthcoming & generous, maybe even helpful. He has a kind, trusting face & it makes you feel safe in that bizarre fatherly way. He walks in & the entire room is lit by his affability, casting a powerful spell among everything. But drunken dad isn’t sociable, he’s terrifying, verbally frightening. As if dad’s existence is split into two opposing personalities. But it’s not another personality, it’s the side effects of a poisonous liquid, one that can ultimately take over your life & kill you. Like a life-threatening disease that starts off harmless, & it intensifies & suddenly becomes unavoidable. You breathe it, you sleep on it, you wake up with it encircling your entire body. You try to push it away & like an irritating housefly it comes buzzing back, flying right into your face. Then you realize now it’s escapable; killing it seems impossible.

Dad is beginning to get a little drunk. Ever since mom died & he couldn’t deal with the grief. He downs 8 cans of Molson beer before turning to me & accusing me of being a worthless juvenile who offers nothing but lies & he’s now completely sick of hearing my ridiculous stories. He tells me he’s going to make me go see a therapist because he’s fed up with my fucking behaviour (his excessive use of swearing only surfaces during such occasions). It’s not so much what he says than the way he says it, yelling loudly, his anger ricocheting off the walls & filling the room with his building abhorrence. He grows twice, even three times his size, a giant howling at me, & I’m so small & defenceless that I just sit there astounded. I don’t know how to retaliate; I don’t know what I can say.

I’m a fucking disgrace of a human being. I’m a horrible daughter. I’ve brought nothing but pain to my father’s life. & he goes on & on about this useless shit until I get up & tell him to stop it. But it doesn’t work. He rises from our decaying brown, broken leather couch, towering over me as if he’s tempted to backhand me across the face but doesn’t. Frantically getting up & darting towards my room, a child trapped in a nightmare escaping a terrorizing phantom, he determinedly trails behind me.

My heart beating violently, pulsing anger & terror through my veins, I secure the eight locks tacked onto my bedroom door & cower towards the corner of the room. Colours dim to black & white. My vivid red & pink bedspread varying different shades of grey. My pink rotary phone, the dazzling incarnadine rug & soft blue tulle curtains draped over my windows, all washed-out. That’s what happens when you’re upset, you’re once colourful world is drained from liveliness & left monochromatic. Sometimes it transforms into two-dimensional, flat, boring, simple, when you’re really, really, really disheartened.

I’m on my bed with my back against the wall & my knees almost pressed to my chin. Dad’s violently banging on the door & saying, “Opening this fucking door, Leah! Open it right now.” & when I don’t, he keeps saying it. “Opening the fucking door! I’ll break it down, if you don’t!” He’s yelling so loud & doesn’t listen when I repeatedly yell at him to stop. My face is contorted in fright & tears despondently run down my face as I press my hands to my ears in attempt to block out his booming voice. It helps none. He’s pounding so hard, the door flinches as if it’s about to break in pieces. “Leah, I’ll fucking tear you apart once I get this door open!”

He doesn’t sound like himself at all.

“Dad stop it!” I yell, trying to back up, but I’ve cowered too much & can’t go any further. I want to open the window & take out the screen & crawl out of my misery. But we live on the 10th floor. I won’t make the fall; I’d die or break all the bones in my body.

After several minutes, it subsides, the yelling & pounding. I can imagine dad standing behind the door, taking deep breaths to alleviate his instability & his eyes are bloodshot as if he’s been crying for hours.

I wait a few hours before going back into our little dingy living room & he’s sitting there, looking slightly contemplative & regretful & listening to old Ella Fitzgerald albums (mother loves Ella). Maybe he wants to apologize, I think, but he never does.

My dad never hits me. That’s another story. That’s another person.