Grace's Chair
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Grace's Chair

 Dai Akaboshi
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 Dai Akaboshi
Grace's Chair
by Dai Akaboshi  FollowFollow
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Dai Akaboshi is an experimental writer from Japan. He writes prose, poetry pieces, short screenplays, and so forth. He is never a blogger....read more He is never an essayist. He wasn't also the chief editor. But, he is simply an aspiring writer. He strongly thinks English is the best language for literature, and hopefully he can be a part of the community.
Grace's Chair
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OKAY…GRACE WAS SEVEN YEARS OLD, walking around with her old tattered doll in her room alone, the tiny T.V., babysitting her. Her sheet was messy on the bed as well as her wrinkled up, stained pillow case, and her mother was busy, working all day. And when she was home, she didn’t always have the energy to be a good mother but she tried so hard each day.
    
By the way, Grace’s father was gone when she was three years old. Her younger brother was just born that year. Though her mother kept wearing the ring, it wasn’t meant for her sentimentality but rather for avoiding another marriage or a serious-drama relationship. Traumatized, her fingers were always dried and wrinkled. Her back pain increased each year, she wasn’t exactly in a good place; she could have used some financial and mental support but she believed that they were better off. She worked so hard to keep the family close and strong. But it wasn’t easy.
    
Now, Grace was 16 years old, her eyes stayed the same, kind of cute and exotic, her skin little darker because of her father's side—Hawaiian—and she was sickly skinny though she could eat a lot for how she looked.
    
Her mother got remarried the last year to a kind of nice guy. Her younger brother decided to be a pro-surfer but instead he got so fat in the summer as video games and bags of chip became his best friends, while Grace had a boyfriend. During the summer, she lost her virginity. And after less than a year, the nice guy her mother married was not so nice anymore.
    
Without feeling fear or embarrassed, Grace was 19 years old, holding a dining room chair to fend off her step-father, a demonized molester. Her mother was at work. Her younger brother was never home, whether skating or jamming with his musician-friends, tattooed arms, piercing, and whatever. He was getting his high school diploma, and he was going for college next year.
    
Now, Grace was little more aggressive than 3 years ago. Her period was late for some reason, she withdrew from all her classes. She puked several times. She wasn’t stupid. It was obvious for her.

This had to stop. Her evil step dad. But he acted a good husband and a good-step daddy for his step-son but he got disturbing ideas every time Grace’s beauty grew in front of his eye.
    
Now, she was late because of him, and the chair was still facing him like an angry bull, so it hit the corner of the evil man’s head. Pop and drop—just like that. He held the wooden floor, painted the floor with his blood. She sat indifferently right next to the soulless body.


Grace was 27 years old in jail, waiting her son to pay a little visit. She wished she could, at least for her son’s visit, change her outfit or cook something for him like how she had dreamed, thinking of having an ideal family of her own. But she had failed.
    

And, I was little, walking with my uncle, my little hand held tightly by him. The times were limited and there had never been great mother and her son moments, no matter how hard she tried. I hated her for ruining my life. Everybody was afraid of me at school. Of course, I was, after all, the son of the rapist-father and the murder-mother, Grace. The story was on the paper. Some of Parents told kids to stay away from me. I don’t blame them. It was just so bad that we, the family, couldn’t hide it or escape from this town, so we lived with it. But because of cursed parents, I was always alone and, it was a perfect way for me to avoid any trouble —in a way.

Years passed, Grace got out. Fuck that—she was never there for me whenever I needed someone to hold or be proud of me. She disappeared completely from my life. What a relief, I thought. I didn’t need her at all as I got older and tougher. Lived and Learned. Working hard, staying humble, I made it to college with a scholarship. I was 19 years old, the first summer as a college kid, excited…But excitement went beyond I could control or imagine. At the very same age as my bio-mother—a bitch or whatever, I went to jail for drinking and fighting. It was a mistake; I was so mad that I could’ve killed myself. I got little scars, a nose-bleed; and I almost killed the other guy. He was in coma for a while. This was bad. I thought I never cared about some forks making fun of me or the bitch but at that night, I was surprised at how mad I was at the guy who was kept saying shit about her. So, unfortunately, I got him good, beating the shit out of him.

    
I was surrounded by the walls, got the similar  shadowy views she had, seeing stuff more clearly as the time slowly passed here. Counting on my fingers how many days left to go, I was ready for outside. I wanted to live again.

Years went by, scars remained still and I was about to leave. I felt more mature, and just outside the gate, I saw my uncle and my… mother—so old, standing next to him, seeming afraid, yet I saw the kindness in her eyes, watering her cheeks.
  
“Grace…’ I finally said. “Mother.”  I started sobbing as well, and I didn’t know why but my body was already moving to our first hug under the perfect blue sky. My body collided with hers; we both cried hard endlessly, and it felt good. I didn’t know why, but I surely do now.

2 comments

Discussion

  18 months ago
I was sad and so I decided to come and read a Red Fez story. This did the trick, improved my mood tremendously. Thank you very much. This is a great story.
  3 years ago
it seems a little loose.
 

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