Empty Seat

Short Story English Assignment Written at age 15

The students flooded into the opened gates of the school. They scrambled inside with their backpacks sagging on their shoulders, lunchboxes in hand. Among the stampede of students were their fathers. Some were tall, others short, some wearing suits and others, casual jeans. Some carried tiresome looks on their faces, their cellphones glued to their ears, anxiously waiting for the next client to call. Others exhibited bright, contagious smiles, their hands tightly held by their child. And, in the midst of the sea of fathers and their children, there I was, all alone.

It was father-daughter day at school, and rows and rows of chairs were aligned perfectly in the grass right outside the main building for the assembly that began a day of “fun, father-daughter bonding” activities. The students quickly made their way to their classrooms with their fathers, dropped off their things, and bolted off to find a seat amongst the rows of chairs before the assembly could begin. In a matter of minutes, the entire mob of chairs was filled with students and fathers sitting to the right of their children.  I had chosen a seat in the sixth row, where I could barely be seen. Principal Franklin began speaking, and as he talked about the importance of fathers in our lives, little girls and boys would turn to their right where their fathers were sitting, and smile with pride. And that was when I felt my stomach twist, and my heart began to ache, for I knew that no matter how hard I wished, no matter how many times I could imagine him coming back, my father wasn’t going to be there. The seat next to me was empty; no father to take his place next to mine, and it was going to stay that way. 

 

 

I remembered the day he left like it was yesterday. The bus had brought me home that Tuesday afternoon at around 3:45. As it pulled up to my street, I popped right up out of my seat, jumped off the bus, and sprinted my way down the driveway. I made my way down the rugged brick pathway that took me straight to the side door. As I shuffled my way to the side of the house, I noticed something strange. My father’s car was parked in the driveway, which was odd considering that he usually got home from work at around 7. But, my face lit up at the sight of his car; I would finally get to show him the self-portrait I had been working on in art class for countless numbers of weeks, or maybe we could even work on my Grammar homework together, for he was much better with words than I was. I made it to the side door and quickly pushed it open, made sure it closed behind me.

“I’m home!” I blurted out, my voice resounding throughout the entire first floor. I marched my way up the side stairs, each step making a unique sound against the wooden staircase. I turned right and in a matter of steps, I was in my room. I tossed my backpack onto the bed, zipped it open, and took out my math homework. We had just started multiplication tables, which I found relatively easy. I sat down in my chair, pulled out a pencil from my pocket, and began writing out my multiplication tables. I decided that after finishing this assignment, I would pop into my parents’ room and eagerly show them the self-portrait I had made.

I sped my way through the multiples of 1, 2, 3, and 4, and as I began writing down the multiples of 5, my thoughts were interrupted by a piercing yell. It was my mother. Mom and dad fought frequently, and an occasional yell from either my mother or father was anything but out of the ordinary. I continued focusing on my homework, but once again was interrupted by yet another yell, this one louder than the one before. This time it came from my father. For the third time I ignored the screams and kept forcing my pencil to continue writing out number after number, but the screaming continued. I put my pencil down. I grabbed my self-portrait, hoping that if the yelling stopped, I would be able to peek into their room and show them what I had done. I stood up from my chair and tiptoed to the door outside my parents’ room, which was closed and locked. I gently stuck my ear against the surface of the door to listen to their excessively loud argument, but the thickness of the door made it difficult for me to make out the words they were blurting out. Right before I could take another step closer to listen with better detail, their yells were interrupted by the sound of something shattering and I knew what it was immediately, the sound ringing throughout my head, bouncing around like a ping pong ball: Mom had smashed a lamp.

Then the yelling stopped. A deadly silence enveloped their room for what felt like 20 minutes. I could hear something rolling, and I barely made out the sound of a zipper opening up. I could hear clothing hangers being pulled out of a closet. I could recognize my father’s footsteps as he walked around his room. I could hear no noise from my mom. After a few minutes, I heard the zipper close, and my father’s footsteps got louder and louder, which meant that he was getting closer to the door. I ran back into my room and sat against the wall so they wouldn’t hear me. The door to my parents’ room flew open, and as I peeked my head outside the door, I could see my father making his way down the hallway, rolling a suitcase with his great big hands.

I turned back to their room and saw my mother sitting on the floor, her head buried between her knees. She was crying helplessly. But my eyes shifted from my mother to my father as I saw him make his way down the stairs, the rattling of the wheels overpowering my mother’s cries. I got a strange feeling that after he made his way down those stairs, he wasn’t ever going to come back up them.

He and that wicked suitcase thumped their way down the stairs, and I felt that each staircase he descended drifted him further and further away. The front door of the house flew open. I ran down the stairs, but it was no use. He had already made his way out the door. My knees shook as I walked over to the window of the living room, peeking my head out the curtain. Unexpected tears began to roll down my face as I saw my father make his way closer and closer to the car, dragging that suitcase behind him with each step he took. But, right before he took that step into the front seat of his car, he looked back at the house. I kept hoping he would look towards the living room window, where I was holding up the self-portrait I had drawn. He kept looking at the house with a mournful yet angry expression, and for a split second, he looked at the living room window. I felt his eyes lock with mine, my face pleading him to come back inside, and unpack that suitcase and forget whatever it was that happened. But, before another second could pass, he threw the suitcase into the car, turned the engine on, and slowly backed away from the driveway.

 

The father-daughter assembly continued, and Mr. Franklin, our school’s principal, continued blabbering on about the “never-ending” fun we were all going to have today. I looked to my right, and noticed that the seat beside me remained empty. I picked up my backpack and filled the seat up with it to avoid having to constantly be reminded that someone was missing. I readjusted myself comfortably my seat and snapped out of it, for this was no time to sit around and ponder over self-pity. It was time to sit up and listen to Mr. Franklin.