Lionel ("Down at the Dinghy") Monologue

From confusion comes a moment of clarity. From chaos comes a moment of enlightenment, and from running away comes a sliver of peace. I try and run as fast as I can, but it is not enough. My bare feet pounding on the dirt road, mud caked between my toes, it is no match. I draw in another breath my lungs burning, but its presence  behind me grows. I feel it's warm breath on my neck and hear the lies it whispers in my ears. It's hand reaches for my shoulder, it's nails digging into my clavicle. Why does something so warm feel so cold? I go back to that day, replaying it in my mind like Mrs. Snell's broken record player. The rocking of the waves, the white caps reaching the bow of the dinghy. I feel the mist of water on my leg, red from the sun of a Georgia summer. It comes to be, trying to earn my trust. It talks to me, trying to learn my language. It towers over me attempting to convince me otherwise. I knew what would happen again, but I let it. The bow of the dinghy let out a deep crack as its top reached the level of the water. It's foot tapped mine, and sent a tremble up my spine. We made small talk commenting on the lake, the surface level calamity. Unbeknownst to us a colony of trout swam below chased by a snapping turtle. It mentioned the maids and my father. My "father". He never was here, never cared. He turned a blind eye to its abuse. It mentioned Sandra's comment about my father. Of course I knew what a kike was, but I remained yellow, and told it about a kite. I wished I was a kite, soaring above the world away from my  troubles. However, I would always be attached to it by a string, forever a victim of its whimsy and erratic movements. It proceeded to calm me down, however with every stroke and touch, my heart rate rose. It put me In an embrace, as I engulfed the smell of an old cigarette on its breath. It's hands lingered, on the seat of my pants as I trembled with fear. "Why can't daddy be here", I repeated to myself constantly. My breathing became erratic, trying to escape the sound of its heart beat. I leaped out of the dinghy its bow shaking as it followed with the tenacity of the fox down the street. It yelled back at me, promising we could go get Daddy, and meet him with a pickle sandwich. It ran towards me, as I beat it to the house. I stubbed my toe on the door, toppling down its reading glasses. It caught up to me attempting to ice my red foot. I asked if we would go see Daddy, but "it" never responded.

My wife asked me why I trembled when she brushed my hair, or tried to hold my hand. I simply could say "it". I couldn't manage to gain the strength to name it. I finished my story and entitled it: The day Daddy died.