Most people know me as primarily a poet. Indeed, it is my most natural style of writing. However, I do write short fiction on occasion. I recently stumbled upon "Having Hope," a short story I wrote back in my college creative writing course a few years ago. Since it was for a class, not many people have read this story. I have decided to post it here, but in segments. Can you guess what Sara's (the lead character) secret it? At what point did you figure it out? I'm always curious to ask this, because people don't always figure it out right away, or at the same moment.
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"Having Hope"
I never thought it would make it this far. Somehow, I always thought it – my secret – would go away. Disappear. Die. But here it is, bigger than ever. My secret is growing and it is becoming harder and harder to hide. I have to get rid of it. But I can’t.
As I lay in bed, I feel the morning sun warm my tired face. I open my eyes and glance out the window. A squirrel makes its way up the maple tree, but feels my eyes and pauses like a deer in headlights. Suddenly, I am interrupted by a sharp pain in my stomach. I hold my breath and squeeze my eyes shut. Once the pain subsides, I open my eyes. A pinkish mound of flesh stares back at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. To my disappointment, the ugly, fat mound is still there. My secret still dwells inside me.
“Sara!!” a low, harsh voice shouts from the kitchen. I am so used to the incessant yelling that I don’t even flinch anymore when I hear it. Most of my friends are afraid of my father. I used to be deathly afraid of him; in some ways, I still am. Yet somehow, over the years, my ears have learned to filter out his verbal attacks, and my body has hardened to his relentless beatings. In fact, I abandoned the titles "father" and "dad" a long time ago. I now refer to him as Larry.
“Sara, get down here!” Larry growls again. I quickly find my sweatshirt on the floor and pull it over me before heading downstairs. Although I’m dreading whatever confrontation he has in store for me, I am starving; I haven’t eaten in nearly two days. I make my way downstairs and grab an apple from the kitchen.
“Sara, where the hell did you put the remote?” Larry shouts from the couch. He’s still drunk. It’s seven in the morning and the loser is still intoxicated. A horrible stench of sweat and stale beer saturates the family room.
“I didn’t put it anywhere,” I mumble. You’re probably laying on it you fatass, I think to myself.
I walk past the couch, but am jerked back by the grip of his arm on my leg and fall face first onto the carpet. At first I panic because I had fallen right onto my stomach. However, I pretend that it’s nothing. Larry doesn’t know my secret. He must never find out. And if, for some horrible reason, he did find out, I probably wouldn’t be around to tell you about it.
I casually – but quickly – get up from the floor. The rise to my feet was a bit awkward, considering the extra 20 pounds I’m lugging around these days. Larry lets out a low-bellied laugh at my expense.
I go back to my room and get ready for school. I glance outside and frown. Now that spring’s arriving, it’s getting much harder for me to hide my secret. During the winter, I could easily hide it under a sweatshirt or fleece vest. Sometimes days would go by and I would forget it was even there. I loved those days. However, reality would eventually slap me in the face again, and I would sink back into depression.
I put on some drawstring sweatpants and a baggy black t-shirt. Since I haven’t been eating much these past several months, my growing belly isn’t as noticeable as it could (or should) be. I pull my hair back in a loose ponytail and put concealer under my eyes. I’m exhausted, but I can’t let anyone see how tired I am. No one can know.
I walk to my parents’ bedroom and see my mother sleeping on the bed. Her long, brown hair spills across the white pillow like hot fudge on a sundae. Her pale body is draped across the bed ever so gracefully. With a ray of sun shining on her through the curtains, she reminds me of an angel.
