5 Minute Writing Exercise Monday: Fireworks

Mayn and I have agreed that it would be wise to warn that this story does involve some fairly intense themes that some people may be more sensitive to.

Today’s exercise comes from the blog Fresh Ink.

You’re at the county 4th of July fireworks display, when you get an overwhelming desire to leave before the show starts.  Why?  Do you leave?  What happens next?

I walked quietly down the midway of the 4th of July festival, hand in hand with the man of my dreams. He was telling me a story of his first 4th of July festival, some of it he remembered, most of it he had heard from his family. “And when the fireworks started, I just lay there, watching these bright lights in the sky, such an unfamiliar concept, but there they were,” he finished, smiling. “What about you?” he asked, giving my hand a gentle tug, pulling me in closer.

My face flushed and I looked to where my feet slowly moved across the ground, almost rhythmically. “I was born in a dinky little town, we didn’t really do fireworks for the 4th of July. We did barbeques and everyone got together and played with sparklers, but that was it. You couldn’t even really see the fireworks from any of the cities nearby.”

He seemed shocked. He had never known a holiday without a traditional city celebration. “But you said you grew up in San Diego, the least dinky city for miles around.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, my memory drifting back to when I was much, much younger. “I moved out to San Diego when I was five,” I said quietly, looking anywhere but at him.

“Is that when you saw your first fireworks display?” he asked, smiling. I knew he was just trying to learn more about me, but it still felt like he was digging too deep.

“Yeah,” I answered quietly. “Hey, I’m getting kind of tired. Will you walk me home?” I looked up at him, trying to smile. All this remembering was making me anxious and I kind of wanted to get out of there.

“Are you sure? They haven’t even started the fireworks yet.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said, my voice accidentally rising an octave. I looked back down at my feet and leaned closer to him, my hand tightening around his.

“Alright, if you really want to go,” he said hesitantly. I sighed. He was just too perfect.

We started walking back toward the edges of the festival, the lights growing less and less bright around us. “So, what was it like?” he pushed again, “Did you get to see the fireworks over the Bay?”

“Yeah. They were big and bright and loud.” My words cut off abruptly. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but I couldn’t just change the subject. I didn’t know why, but I couldn’t.

“What’s the hurry?” he asked, and only then did I realize that I was walking as fast as possible away from the festival. I didn’t want to be there anymore, but I slowed down again, trying not to worry him.

“Oh. No hurry.” I was trying to be cheerful, smiling, even meeting his eyes, but he knew me too well.

“Something is wrong. Tell me,” he stopped and pulled me closer to him again, “please?”

“Can we just leave?” I asked. I glanced down at my watch. It was almost nine. The fireworks started at nine. I did not want to be here at nine.

“We’ll leave, just please tell me what’s wrong.”

I hid my face in his chest, taking in his scent, trying to calm myself. I looked up at him. “I just don’t like fireworks. That’s all.”

“Babe, you don’t like dark leafy vegetables. You don’t act this way when there’s broccoli in the room.” His analogy made me laugh, I couldn’t help it. “Now please tell me?” The look on his face told me he was connecting the dots. “Is it about your first festival?”

I hid my face again and mumbled, “Yes.” I didn’t want him to know. I didn’t want to tell him. It was horrible just thinking about it, but to actually say the words…

“Come on, follow me,” he said as he pulled away and led me back toward the lights of the festival. I followed after quickly, wrapping both of my arms around his, staying as close as possible. I didn’t want to be farther away from him than I had to be.

We walked into the lights, then right past them. He led me away to the edge of a steep bank. He took off his jacket and laid it down so we could both sit on it. I let go of his arm just long enough to sit down. The moment he was close to me again, I pulled myself against him, resting my head on his shoulder.

“Here,” he said, once I had relaxed, “Now we can talk.” I looked up at him, begging with my eyes to not have to talk about it. “I will still love you, no matter what you tell me.” He kissed me softly on the forehead and I couldn’t help but relax.

And so I told him. I told him about how I had moved to San Diego, but not my family. I had been removed from my childhood home because my father drank too much and my mother was always out, often with other men. So I moved to San Diego to live with my uncle and his daughter in the fall of my fifth year. When I was six, I went to my first festival. But my uncle wasn’t much better than my drunk father or neglectful mother, he was just better at pretending he was a good parent. He didn’t drink, but he yelled a lot. He yelled at everyone, especially the young women and men he always had around.

I started crying as I recounted that night, I couldn’t help it. I felt ashamed that I was so emotional about something that happened so long ago. And I remembered that I wasn’t there, it wasn’t happening again, I was on the bank with the most amazing person ever, and he was holding me and gently stroking my hair.

But I couldn’t talk anymore. It was the scariest thing I could remember, hearing his voice over the fireworks.

I looked up at the man who held me and all I could do was whisper, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, keeping the disbelief out of his voice, though it was evident in his eyes. He held me for a while longer before asking, “Do you want to go?”

I shook my head, waiting for this feeling that if I talked I would start crying again to stop. “I don’t want to hate them. You said yourself, they’re so beautiful.” I laid down with my head in his lap. I didn’t want to be afraid forever. I wanted this to be how I remembered the 4th of July, not that.

“I love you,” he said, smiling down at me, a stray lock of his hair falling down over his face. I caressed his cheek, my eyes meeting his.

“I love you more.”

And then the fireworks started.

I started crying again, but I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to be here. With him.