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Epilogue

I believe there is nothing worse than realizing everything you've ever desired is completely unattainable. People have dreams, and it is these dreams that give us hope for the future. A dream is something we believe can happen, and we tell ourselves that it will come true eventually; we just have to wait until the right day comes. So we wait, hope, pray, plan and suffer through hell and high water for our dreams that are supposed to be warm and comforting, hoping they'll come true. The real pain, though, comes when the hopes that bind you lash backward and force you to realize that no matter what you, yourself, do, you're lead to believe that there is no way you may ever see your dream come true. That's what I have come to know as being the only thing you can rely on in life; your dreams don't ever come true.

In 1989, the year I would turn 18 years old, my father left for work one morning with an extra set of suitcases, deciding that the business trip he was going on would last a lot longer than a 11 days. The last fight my parents had took place at my neighbor, The Callan's, back bedroom of their house. The fury errupted when my mother spilled birthday cake on my father's brand new houndstooth overcoat and all of the sudden, apparently, all of the guests at the party heard the argument go from cake spills to how much my father hated living under the same roof as a "deceitful, selfish pig of a woman". That was 10 months ago. I was not there to witness this, of course. I was never at home after the fighting had started. I spent every waking hour at my best friend Tuesday Martin's house (nicknamed Marty. Tuesday is a "hippy name". Post-Woodstock Syndrome of her parent's doing. No one ever calls her Tuesday unless it's the first day of school and a teacher hasn't been advised of the unofficial name change). Her parents are artists. They don't believe in arguing. Hell, they don't really believe in verbal communication at all. "The paintings speak for themselves," Mrs. Martin always says under a raspy, nicotene-indulged breath. My parents rely on verbal communication. That's what started the end, and now it's over. I do nothing at my mother's house except sleep and walk my Yellow Laborador, Monroe, every morning before school. My older sister Kelly whines constantly to me, saying "Ray, it's not right" to leave my mom at home by herself, because I'm the youngest child and without me she's "all alone". Kelly, being a 3rd-year communication's major at Maryland State University Baltimore just down the street, must not be learning much at school because she hasn't visited Mom since she moved out either. I, personally, wouldn't have it any other way. Kelly's the kind of girl to say that's she's going to meet you for lunch at noon on the bay near Kessler Beach, then doesn't show up because she's been distracted by an overpriced sundress in the window at Marshall Field's. She's selfish, and I, well... it's hard to explain in layman's terms, really. But I'll try real hard.

Part One >>