Being on the back of a motorcycle, I thought, was the most exhilarating feeling in the world. It was worth dying for to live in a moment.
It was not, however, worth the fierce anger of my father.

Hard to believe, but I had lived for seventeen years unscathed by the depth of my father's rage. His usual reaction to my inevitable disappointments was to smile knowingly - inflicting a barrel of guilt, but rarely pain.

I think he was more shocked by his own outburst than I was. Sitting behind the dining room table, whiskey tumbler in hand, he had erupted when I walked toward the stairs in the darkness.

He had seen me come home. Seen the streak of light that has trailed away, heard the hum of the engine.

His little girl?
At 3 am on a Saturday morning in a painted mask, I was no longer her.
How I weep for her death.



back to intro