Fragments Read Free Page A

father had tried to talk to me, he’d barely gotten a word out before I’d cut him off. “Don’t you ever fuckin’ touch us again, or I will end you. Pop taught me how to shoot, so you remember that.”
                  I’d ended up taking a week off school to apply the final touches to my truck. There was no way that I would let it sit in his garage when he had treasured it like a piece of art.  One day, I’d be old enough to drive it, and I wanted it ready. Next to the speedometer, I placed a pocket-sized picture of Pop standing next to his own beloved car that he loved. He smiled at the camera, and I felt like that smile was directed at me.
    Trice
    Summer, 2006
    Growing up in a country town was difficult as a teenager. Even though the population exceeded 20,000, everyone seemed to know everyone. If someone mentioned their friends’ aunties’ in-law’s name, you were sure to know her or someone with that last name. It was the most infuriating part of living here. Breaking free from the common mould was so difficult.  Going into town, you were bound to see someone you knew, and how you dressed, who you spoke to, and what you were doing seemed to be constantly scrutinised. The only solace a person had was to hide or be surrounded by good friends, if you were lucky enough to have them.  I was lucky to have a close group, but they weren’t always there when I needed them. For me, the majestic beauty of the river was a constant thing that kept me sane. The stillness of the current - soft to look at but potentially deadly underneath - reawakened me.  In those moments when I felt defeated, I could always rely on the calm flow of the river to soothe me.
    Our family’s property faced the main river, and we were even lucky enough to have our own nook - like a small lake or billabong - to swim in. Surrounded by gum trees, it was our own rustic oasis. A brisk two-minute walk would see you with your feet twinkling in the river itself, but heaven help you if my mother saw you do it.  The lake was the only place where we were allowed to swim.  Each year at least one backpacker would attempt to swim our mighty river, and said backpacker was
    often found dead a few days later, so it was understandable why my mother was so strict.
    If the river was my solace, then my room was my haven. I spent a lot of time making my room just right - it was the place where I could be myself without distraction while blocking out any hurt. Sadly at sixteen, I was all too familiar with feeling alone. As effervescent as my family was - the happiness of my parents’ marriage, their love did not cocoon me from the dismal loneliness that I faced at school when the bullies attacked me and nothing was done about it.  My saving grace was my friends and my older brother, Robbie, who was eighteen, as well as an unlikely friendship with his best friend, Alex.
    We lived in a two-story weatherboard house that my parents built themselves. Our home had soft yellow weatherboards, a wraparound porch, and a beautiful wooden staircase. The eucalyptus trees were a constant reminder of being in the country; in winter, their scent was dulled, however, in summer they had a strong pungent scent that enveloped our house. It made our parents feel truly Australian, even though they could never fully relinquish their Italian traditions. Walking through our house, the smell of my mother’s sauce cooking was a constant reminder of this. The stark white walls contrasted with the colourful paintings and photos that showcased how proud my parents were of our achievements.  Set on a large property with our own private swimming hole, our house did seem extravagant, but it wasn’t a sign of wealth in a entitled sense. The hours my parents spent working multiple jobs, on weekends and nights to give us a future, were what created our home. 
    Summer brought with it the dry, stifling heat, and our daily routine consisted of trudging through the days after