Sometimes we run away from our past to escape the pain we endured growing up. Yet the scars still remain from this torturous upbringing.

We try to bury both memories and emotions. But what may be best is facing the demons that remain within, as you will see in . . .

Faded Memories

     Crash, boom, a concert of thunder erupted in the gloom of an early, Denver afternoon. Engrossed in reviewing a $6,000,000 funding proposal that had to be mailed to a federal grant agency by five o’clock, the magnitude of the occurrence startled me. I stared out my office window into a myriad of dark, black clouds—eerie, ghostlike forms encroaching upon the horizon.

     These creatures of darkness appeared to be moving toward me. I didn’t understand why, but then life itself remained a mystery to me. I eyed this phenomenon with awe and apprehension, as the room became engulfed by these dark beings.

     Focusing on the clock on the far wall of the office, the time jumped out at me—1:30 p.m. Then, for no apparent reason, the hands on the clock began spinning in a counterclockwise direction. My captors cloaked me in blackness as I disappeared into a world I’d tried to forget. The present became blurry as the faded memories of my past emerged. Twenty-three years disappeared in the blink of an eye. Then, as a fifteen-year-old boy, I entered the front door of a small, red brick house in upstate New York. 

     Shaking the snow from my boots, I ripped off my coat and raced through the living room to the kitchen. “Mom,” I shouted as I entered the kitchen. “I’ve got some great news.”

     Mom, a plump, middle-aged woman, spun around from in front of the stove and scowled, “Roger, can’t you see I’m busy cooking? Now go to your room and get ready for dinner. And don’t dawdle.”

     Dejected, I turned and slipped away toward my room. Entering, I rolled onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. “God, why can’t she listen to me? If only she would take the time,” I lamented.

     My eyes surveyed the room. Unattractive, drab green walls framed my otherwise unremarkable sanctuary. On the scuffed hardwood floor lay a rumpled, gold throw rug. An empty bulletin board hung on the wall above a cluttered desk and the wall next to the bed displayed a picture of a sad-faced clown—a reflection of me.

     “I better get moving,” I groused. I don’t want to make Mom more upset. I got up, wiped the tears from my eyes, looked into the mirror at my pimple-covered face, ran my fingers through my hair, and shuffled off to the dining room. 

     “I wish I was dead,” I muttered, as I made my way down the hallway. Tears began to roll from my eyes once again. I rubbed them with my shirtsleeve. 

     Arriving at the dining room, I saw my mother; father, a rather small man; and my eighteen-year-old brother Bill seated at the large oak table. 

     “Roger, get in here already,” my mother snarled. “We’ve been waiting at least five minutes. Can’t you ever be on time? Don’t you care about other people?”

     Frowning and trying hard to hold back the tears, I sat and slumped down in my chair, my head just above the edge of the table. My father grumbled a short prayer and the family began to eat in silence

     A few minutes later, I mustered up the courage to speak. “Mom,” I stammered, “May I be excused?” 

     “No, you may not,” she blurted.

     Dad kept his head down, as if trying to be invisible. I needed his support, but didn’t get it. I never did.

     I sat without saying a word the rest of the meal. Mom chattered away about my brother Bill’s accomplishments and how someday he would become a great success. And her remarks were aimed at me.

     “Your brother’s so handsome. He’s outgoing and quite charming—a boy a mother can be proud of,” her voice resonated in praise. “You should model yourself after your big brother, Roger,” she chortled.

     My stomach churned in agony. I burst away from the table yelling, “I think I’m going to heave.”

     As I disappeared down the hall, I could hear my mother shouting in frustration to my father and Bill, “What the hell is the matter with that boy?”

     Entering my room, I tumbled onto the bed and wept into my pillow. “Why am I me? I must not be normal. Something must be wrong with me,” I cried out in dismay. 

     Calming down a bit, I grumbled, “I’m not Bill. He’s the success—the scholar, the athlete, the socialite. Me, I’m the failure. I have no friends. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t know what will become of me.”

     Confused and frustrated, the emotional toll of the evening took everything out of me. Still in my street clothes, I clutched my pillow and fell into a deep, but restless, sleep.

     The night passed and the next day came, soon giving way to another day and yet another night. Days turned into months and months into years. Now twenty-two, I sat in silence on my bed in a room only somewhat changed by the passage of time, the green paint on the walls a bit more faded, the floor more scuffed.

     My face, showing traces of my former severe skin problem, reflected bitter disappointment. The struggles of the years left their scars, but the anguish of the present was even harder to accept.

     I gazed at the parchment lying next to me on the bed. I focused on the bold, black written words. They came alive and danced before me—HAVE CONFERRED UPON ROGER MEYER THE DEGREE OF BACHELOR OF ARTS WITH A MAJOR IN BUSINESS ADMINISTRATION—causing the pain within me to worsen. I turned the certificate on its face. I looked up at the sad-faced clown now hanging somewhat askew above the bed. I knew how he felt.

     Wicked thoughts and nightmarish dreams of evil things happening to my parents and brother raced through my mind. They could’ve come to my graduation this morning and still attended Bill’s master’s degree ceremony, which didn’t start until four in the afternoon.

     Their absence felt like daggers sticking into my heart. “I know I’m not much, but I did accomplish something,” I cried. “Don’t they care? No, they don’t give a damn. But I’ll show them. I’ll show them all.”

     I pictured an article appearing in tomorrow’s paper. It read, “Mr. and Mrs. Charles Meyer and their oldest son, Bill, found bludgeoned to death in their home. Their younger son, Roger, who had left the house at 8:00 p.m. and returned home two hours later to find the front door wide open, called 9-1-1. No clues to the killer’s identity have been found.”

     Dismissing these dark feelings, I rolled off the bed and stood in front of the mirror, now yellowed by the passage of time. I peered into the glass to see my future. Many faces stared back at me—a funny-faced clown, a well-respected banker, a certified public accountant working for a major corporation, a tax lawyer who saved businesses from failing, and a beloved politician. 

     Having little confidence in my abilities, degree or no degree, I felt I’d never be able to succeed in these arenas. I leaned back against the wall and began to sob.

     From behind the tears flowing down my face, I groaned, “I can’t stay here.” I knew what I had to do—a packed bag, a short note of explanation, a closed door, and a new life. They won’t care if I leave. I’ll change—find a job and become a success. They’ll be sorry they pushed me out. I’ll show them what I can do. And I will be back.

     A burst of sunlight shot through my office window. Stunned, my eyes perused my plush, beautifully appointed executive office. No more dark clouds surrounded me. In the present again, with past memories now somewhat faded, I let out a sigh of relief.

     But then something strange happened. My brother, Bill, decked out in the entirety of his master’s degree trappings, with a bright halo above his graduation cap, stood in front of my large executive desk. He looked me straight in the eye and stated, “Roger, you are a success—a prominent businessman, a leader in a major company, and a champion of causes to help the less fortunate. You are every bit the man I am. You will make Mom and Dad proud. It is time.”

     The image of Bill faded as fast as it had appeared. I looked at the clock—the time, 1:35 p.m. It felt as if my mind had wandered for hours, but it had been just a matter of minutes. 

     Trying to put the thoughts of my youth behind me, I returned to work on the funding proposal. I completed it and placed it in my “Out Box,” so it would be mailed. As I cleared my desk, my mind again reflected on the past. My heart raced. I muttered to myself, “It is time.” 

     I pushed the intercom and spoke to one of my assistants in the outer office. As the conversation concluded, I said, “Let me know when you have reached the travel agency and made my reservations.”

     About twenty minutes later, a voice echoed through the intercom, “Mr. Meyer, Mr. Landis from the travel agency called to confirm your reservations to the East Coast.”

     The intercom went silent, but through the closed office door, I could hear the two assistants talking. One purred, “Mr. Meyer is such a nice guy. He’s sort of cute with that full black beard. I wonder why he’s still single?”

     The other scoffed, “He works too hard, spends at least sixteen hours a day here. Got no time for women. He’s in love with the job. But he would be a catch.”

     Hearing these remarks, my heart began to pump faster and my spirit became empowered. Their conversation ended as soon as they heard me move toward my office door. I emerged, gave the senior assistant instructions on the mailing of the proposal, told her I would see her in four days, turned, and left through the outer office door.

     Peering over my shoulder, I could see both assistants watching me. I thought to myself, I’m thirty-eight-year-old Roger Meyer—dressed in a neat, gray pinstripe suit and black tie, with hair graying at the temples and a full black beard. I’m a success. I felt like jumping up and clicking my heels. Instead, I looked straight ahead and whispered, “I’m going home.”

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.