This no longer needs to be reviewed - I won't touch it. But I won't say no to praise, general comments that will help me with future essays, or if you'll just read it, so go crazy.

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Out of Focus

People say that your life can change in an instant: two cars crashing, a phone ringing to tell you the news that your son is getting married. But these events don’t happen in an instant; events build up to the one moment when you are dragged into it. The two cars had drivers’ driving before they crashed, who had lives before they got in the car. The son proposed before he called, and he dated the girl before he proposed. The instant that changes your life is the instant you become involved.

I was eleven years old when I became involved.

I stepped off of the school bus, just as I had hundreds of times before, my backpack weighing down on my shoulders from the new books it contained. It was a clear day, so I took my time heading up to the front door. I got the mail and ruffled through it, becoming disappointed when I had no mail. I eventually made it up the hill that led to my house and opened the front door that my mom had left unlocked for me.

I dropped my bag to the floor and shut the door behind me before turning around and seeing my mom and brother waiting for me in the kitchen. “What’s going on?” I asked, walking down the hall to join them. The room was deathly silent, and I knew in an instant that something was up.

My mom ignored my question, instead telling my brother and me to take a seat. My brother John sat in the chair next to the wall, and I dropped the mail onto the table before sinking into the one closest to the door. My mom remained standing, leaning back slightly on the counter behind her for support.

“You’re getting a divorce, aren’t you?” my brother asked suddenly, looking up at my mom. I thought the idea was ridiculous. My family wasn’t going to be split up; that was just something you read about in books. My mom looked at us guiltily, and I didn’t need any more confirmation than that.

She began explaining what had happened while we were at school; the condensed version, of course. She had gone to my father with her ‘evidence’ and asked him to explain. He denied everything, but she knew he was lying. She told him to get out of the house, but he refused to leave. They shouted at each for a few minutes before my father went upstairs to shower.

When she heard the water turn on, my mom grabbed her keys and headed off. She had already packed up the car with the evidence she had found, so she drove straight to the police station. I mentally kicked myself when I heard this; her car had been parked right across the street from me when I was at recess, yet I hadn’t even noticed.

My mom managed to get a temporary restraining order, which is very rare to get without a trial. She was told to call the police the minute my father came home. She agreed and went out on errands, not wanting to be around the house while she waited. She didn’t get home until a few minutes before my brother did, and then waited for my bus to arrive before saying anything.

My brother suggested we stay in the ‘Green Room,’ what we call our playroom, while we waited for Dad to come home. He said that Dad would become suspicious if we were all upstairs together, which was true. The three of us would talk together sometimes, but the minute we heard the garage doors open, I would retreat to my room with a book, my brother to the ‘Green Room’ to play video games, and my mom to the office to work. We all climbed the stairs together, in silence, unsure of what was happening.

When we got to the ‘Green Room,’ I immediately sunk into the sofa, dark green leather underneath me, light green paint surrounding me on the walls. I seemed to have so much energy, but I was too shocked to use any of it.

We had to wait for what felt like hours. We turned on the television in an attempt to make the time go faster, but I couldn’t focus on the cartoons blaring from the screen. Any time I heard a car drive by I jumped up and looked out the window. After a few times of doing that my brother told me to sit down and relax, but I couldn’t. I paced the room while John and Mom sat.

The garage doors finally began to open, rumbling underneath my feet. We stood frozen for a moment before my mom grabbed the phone and dialed for the police. Downstairs, we heard Dad banging around in the kitchen, getting a plate and taking his dinner out of the oven.

John offered to go downstairs after a few minutes, so Dad wouldn’t wonder why we were all upstairs, which he probably wouldn’t have, but we were all a little paranoid at this point. My mom said that was a good idea, so John got up and went downstairs, were we could hear him answering the basic ‘how was your day’ questions and eating his dinner. John was back upstairs in less than ten minutes; he’s always been a fast eater. My father remained downstairs, the television blaring while he picked at his meal. If he weren’t interrupted, it would take him hours to finish.

My mom told John and me that we’d better head to our rooms. I wanted to watch what would happen, but I was also afraid that Dad would blow up at the police officers, so I obliged. I grabbed scissors from my desk; a useless tactic I’ve picked up over the years. My father has never actually hit me, but hearing him scream always made me fear that he would. I sunk to the floor, leaning my back against the door. I sat silently for a minute, trying to hear through the wood.

Then the doorbell rang.

I closed my eyes as I heard my mom’s light steps bringing her down the stairs, closer and closer to the door and the bathroom my father still occupied. She opened the door and saw that it was in fact the police, then called out, “Mark, there’s someone here for you,” purposefully being vague. She allowed the policemen inside and was led into the living room by one of them, leaving two in the hall. Later on John told me that they always sent an extra one in cases like these to calm down the spouse.

My father finally finished and entered the hall, shocked to find two police officers in their blue uniforms waiting for him. He asked what was going on, so they explained to him that he had to leave the house, and would be given half an hour to gather his essentials. In my room I opened my door a tiny bit, straining to hear, waiting for the moment my mind was sure to come of him violently reacting.

Time passed, yet there was no pound of a fist connecting with the wall, no booming voice yelling. I actually heard my father crying downstairs. I didn’t pity him; I knew he was just acting. I much preferred tears to shouting, though.

While the police officers and my parents were talking downstairs, I placed the scissors onto my dresser table and pulled myself up, holding on to my doorknob to steady myself when I realized my legs were shaking. I drew in a deep breath, then opened my door, slowly, wincing every time the hinges squeaked.

I slipped into the dark hallway, sitting down on the stairs while my brother stood next to the banister. I was surprised to see him; I hadn’t even heard him leave his room. Downstairs my father was denying everything, but the police wouldn’t budge. My brother told me to go to my room several times, obviously trying to shelter me from the truth, but I kept returning to the stairs.

The police eventually told my father that is was time to go, and that he had to grab his stuff quickly. He asked if he could at least finish his dinner first, but they denied him of that. Two of them trailed him as he wandered through the house, collecting random items, while the third stayed with my mom. John and I quickly went into our rooms, closing the doors behind us as quietly as possible.

When Dad got to the master bedroom, in the middle of the hall between my brother’s bedroom and mine, the police officers closed the door. I had been listening to them walk around the house for almost half an hour by then, and I was positive if I paced the floor one more time I would burn a hole through my rug.

I listened at the door for a minute, then, when I was pretty sure that I heard my father in the corner farthest away from the door, I opened mine and slipped into the hall, racing towards my brother’s room, my safety zone. I paced in there for a little while, then went back to my room, running when the police officer opened the master bedroom’s door and looked down at me disapprovingly.

I went back into my room, only closing the door partway behind me. My father had managed to drag his time out to an hour, but now he had to leave. Down the hall John came out of his room and hugged him. My father told him how much he loved him, and John went along with everything that he said. Once he was done saying good-bye to John, he turned to me.

He stood in my brother’s doorframe with an expectant look on his face, his arms opened slightly, palms towards me, the universal look for ‘well?’ I wasn’t sure what I really wanted, but John had hugged him, so I walked down the hall and allowed him to hug me, too.

He wrapped his arms around me and told me that he loved me, still sniffing a bit from crying. I stood motionless in his arms, refusing to say anything back. He asked me if I knew that he loved me when he noticed I wasn’t moving, but I stayed silent. How could I know, or believe, that if he had been telling me the opposite for so many years?

He finally pulled away from me and walked down the hall, around the banister, and down the steps. I went back to the ‘Green Room’ to watch him leave. I heard the door close behind him and watched him get into his car. He started it up and pulled out of the driveway, driving down the road with two police cars trailing him, leaving me to wonder if I would even remember him.

That night I went to bed without eating dinner. I was still shaken up about the whole thing, but I managed to calm down enough to go fall asleep. I kept wondering if he would come back, if he would be angry. That first weekend we slept in a hotel, since the police warned us that that would be the most likely time he would return. We installed a security alarm, and I put a baseball bat underneath my bed. Even so, I continued to wonder if he would return, years after the day he left.

One instant changes your life forever, whether it’s for good or bad. I got my father out of the house, got rid of yelling and hitting, but now I have to worry about him getting custody over me and not having my mom there to stop him from getting too bad. Many events lead up to this instant, and many come after. One event doesn’t change your life; that moment has always affected you and always will. It never ends.

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EDIT: I altered it and posted the revised version.