Sorry I haven't been on much this week, but I've had a lot to do at school. I promise to be on more often after this.
The past two weeks we've been working on a narrative in my English class. Prewriting was last week, and the actual writing was this week. Our assignment was to Write a narrative on our scariest moment. I ran into the trouble of not remembering my scariest moment and went with one of my violent memories instead. She said it had to be ONE paragraph, so you'll note the lack of spacing and indentions. I apologize. This is my final copy, and I hope it's not as bad as I feel it is. Any critiquing would be lovely.
./hugsandlove
-BickHurricane Philip
A day in the life with my Bi-Polar Father
The sound of wood against wood in a furious thrust of frustration and anger could not only be heard outside, but his anger seemed emanate off of him. I watched as the neighbor kids with the connected backyard looked at him with wide eyes. They trampled away, as the bat came one last time towards the old dying willow tree. I could only hope they wouldn’t have judged me on his own actions. That’s all I could ever hope when he was in those moods.
His feet stomped into the ground, and the bat hung loosely in his hands. His form disappeared into the sheds that connected to our house. I would later come to find my fish tank broken, and many of our valuables cracked or destroyed. A dusky light was my only guide as his figured emerged from the sheds, the air was still thick with the humid Summer heat. The musty old clothes hung limp and lifeless in my arms as I leaned against the window frame and watched him. The sounding vibration of the slamming door came to my person.
My father had never been a real father to me, in fact I couldn’t call him a normal person either. My father has a mental disease—he’s Bi-polar, and because of this he was more like another temperamental child in the house… a temperamental child with muscles. His mood swings we were far worse then a pregnant woman, usually going from smiled to anger, or even worse to depression. During this fiasco he was depressed, and when he gets depressed he gets the kind of angry you don’t want to be around just for protection of your own bones. Don’t get me wrong, my father can be the sweetest person I know, I’ve got a few of those good memories to cling on to. It goes with the saying my mother has, “When he’s good, he’s really good, and when he’s bad, he’s really bad.”
By the time my mother made it home, we both marched down the steps to greet a very unhappy father who was still sorting clothes after having tossed boxes of them all over the basement floor. The yelling started with my mother, but my father seemed to only get more frustrated by this. Within seconds he started to pounce around in circles. His hands went for his hair, pulling and scrunching it up in that little kid-like frustration. He muttered under his breath, he seemed to be losing all control of his wits. There was little noise during this—the silence before the storm.
That was when he started to yell, but when my father yells it’s more like a boat horn, a big booming sound. His next actions were quick, because within seconds he had grabbed our ironing board. He ran towards my mother, the anger and frustration all combining into his movement. I didn’t feel anything at first, as I instinctively walked in front of my mother. My eyes were closed and all I could think was, “Will he do it?” I stood there for a few stale moments, my heart pounding only to feel nothing. Nothing came at first, until my mother grabbed my hand. She pulled me through the basement and we went up the steps. The sound of clinking keys came to my ear as I followed her out the door. The smooth touch of our copper door handle came to my fingers as I shut the door behind me. I looked back out the house one last time before stumbling into the car.
I could hear his footsteps even out here as he ran out the door. His footsteps have been something that has haunted me since I was a child. It was never good to hear those footsteps, it always meant that storm was coming—Hurricane Philip. The engine revved and came on, only to have my mother stare out at my dad through her temporarily opened window. I couldn’t see much from where I was, but the phone was held steadily in my hand. The plastic against my shaking hands as I dialed the three numbers. I inclined my hand and noticed in terror that my father had the brick over his head, aimed at my mother. I had my thumb over the send button, when the scream came.
I’ll never forget that scream, it sends shivers down my back even now. That scream was the most unreal thing I’ve ever heard. It sounded liked it belonged in those old horror movies, for that’s exactly what that day was becoming. The beast fell back, the brick in his hand falling down towards the ground. I could see my mother’s hands shaking as she quickly looked back and started backing out he car. My father yelled towards us, it was about 11pm on a school day when it all ended, and I got a taste of Hurricane Philip that I will never forget.
I don’t think I ever got over that day, in fact I’ve never gotten over a lot my father did. I learned that even though my father was an adult, it didn’t make him a trusted adult. He’s not someone in my life I can stay with, nor is he someone I can ever find myself to forgive. I just hope one day he makes a change for the better, so I can learn to love him again. This girl doesn’t want to have to go through that storm ever again.
August 14th 2020, 6:22 am by TerishD
Subject: Hurricane Philip - My Father 
But yes, it was one long paragraph! Kind of scared me, actually. I was afraid of how bad my grade was going to be with it like that! It came to 3 pages with the double spacing. And... no one else had one over a page a half. 
