Bill Rewrite

I chose to put this fictional piece in as a wild card because of it’s interesting idea. The original assignment was to read the “Bill” story and write it from a different characters point of view. I chose for my story to be told from the daughters perspective. I wanted this piece to accomplish executing the daughters emotions through her side of the story. The thing I like most about this piece is that you can compare it to Bill’s side and see two completely different explanations and emotions. I think this shows that as a writer I can create emotions to fit a character and the situation. If I could revise this one more time I would include more of the dads’ actions to back up her emotions. 

     I was six years old when my father starting acting weird. Since I knew nothing of his time-consuming disease I thought that I was doing something wrong. He would never kiss me, not even goodnight, and I seemed to see him less and less. His coughing would keep me up at night so I would just sit in bed and think: I would contemplate all the wrong I had done that could possibly be causing this dismal separation.

     Since I was so young I didn’t know what depression really was, but I know now that I was sinking deeper into it knowing something was wrong. I would try and kiss him but every time I did he would back up and say, “Minna’s a big girl now, Minna doesn’t want Papa to kiss her.” But I did. I wanted to know I wasn’t doing anything wrong and that I still had my father there to support me through this.  But I didn’t.

     Then one day people were coming to my house, car after car they pulled in, all asking if they were the ones. I was confused and sad and most of all scared. A couple days later a married couple came to my house and presented me with a blue parcel. They guided me to the car and before I could even wave goodbye we were gone. After that day I never saw my father again and for years I would wonder and blame the disengagement upon myself.

     When I was 16 years old my adopted parents told me what really happened to my father. When I close my eyes at night I often get visions of him disappearing under a shade of blue, indistinguishably the same shade of that of my parcel. And since then I’ve looked back at our memories as something I’ve dreamed of in hopes to forget the pain that it caused me. I try to tell myself that is wasn’t my fault but deep down I know I will always take the blame for our lamentable parting.


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