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“He was such a nice guy!”, Grandma uttered.
“I would have never thought he would have done such a thing, always so friendly to everyone”, my aunt gasped.
“He was so polite, helpful too. There has to be a mistake.”, Grandpa answered, shaking his head.
“Oh stop it, everyone!” I pounded my fist onto the coffee table, my voice echoing through the small living room. There was no way I could continue participating in these charades.
“Stop pretending you did not see the bruises on Mrs. Nellie’s neck, Mom. And you Grandpa, you rushed us into the house, when Mr. Nellie shoved his son so hard, he fell up the stairs, ’cause he was not moving fast enough.”
My face was red with anger, my sight ablaze, as I gazed at my family who had gathered in our living room after the news broke, and the police cleared our street.
The news that our next door neighbor beat his wife to death, shot his son, and then had turned the gun on himself.
“Why does everyone pretended everything was okay? Why did you look away? If you would have said something, maybe Matt would be going to the Prom next month. Instead, we are going to his funeral. And his Mom deserved better, ” my voice wavered slightly, as I thought of the shy woman, who had smiled at me every morning.
My father stood up, and motioning toward me. “Danielle, honey…”
“Don’t honey me, Dad.”, I hissed.
I turned around, the dazed stares of my family burning into my back.
Copyright Claudia H. Blanton 2014
This post is a Daily Prompt post, asking about memories. Memories can deceive us, often we remember that which we want to see, and not always the reality as it presented itself.