Lifestyle Magazine

Internal Conflicts

By Bewilderedbug @bewilderedbug

Internal conflicts

I’ve had fun writing this story – it’s a continuation of Unknown Life and A little information could be a dangerous thing.

I hope you are enjoying this as it is  evolving….


I had been driving forever.  I still didn’t know where I was going, but after finding out so much about my past in so little time, I just couldn’t return to my normal life.

Not now.

I was not sure when I would ever be able to go back to normal again.

I didn’t even know what normal was anymore.

I was the daughter of an alcoholic murderer and I had a brother.  Somewhere.  A brother – and no one had told me.

Did they even know?

The explosion of information at the ravine near the house  completely stunned me.   That was two days ago.  I still had not wrapped my head around it.

In the last few weeks, nothing could be wrapped around this head of mine.

My mind was too active, constantly twirling up and down, backwards and forwards, restless and confused.  There were so many unanswered questions.

So as I thought, I drove.  Why?  Why does the dung beetle dance?  To escape with its precious cargo before others could invade and take it away.

I was protecting my secret like it was the most mysterious and precious little package I could ever possess.  Or was it to protect the safe life that I’d created from this upheaval that was happening?

A dung beetle has a direction when it dances, but I had none.  I was just driving.  Away.  Away from anything familiar and from anything that had suddenly imposed itself into my life.

My phone was off, my radio was off and I was speeding.  Faster and faster as if I could make this old car fly.

I didn’t want to go back to my whitewashed life with my whitewashed parents and my whitewashed fiancé.

I wanted to dig deeper.

I wanted to figure out who this chain smoking, gin-swigging, emotion-fueled stranger who had taken my place was.

I wanted to figure this out before anyone else could disturb my musing by reminding me that I was a responsible, hard-working adult, about to get married to the man of my dreams.

I wanted to figure out how much of my mother was hidden inside of me.  Or did I?

If I found out more, would it destroy me?  Would I never return to Vancouver?  Would I end up like her?

Alone and filled with regret?

My stomach growled and I realized that all I had eaten for the day was the rest of the candy bar from yesterday and cigarette smoke.

I pulled into the carpark of a nearby hi-way pub, cut the engine and walked in, too many unanswered questions still swirling around my head.

It was a typical biker’s bar, with several Harley’s parked near the front door, some semi-trucks at the back and a payphone on the outside.

I opened the door and entered the smoke-filled interior, being reminded vaguely of an old Western movie w here the dangerous stranger entered amidst a wash of cool air and smoke.

I was the stranger.  Dangerous?  I wasn’t quite sure yet what I was.  Or what I was supposed to be.

I walked to the greasy, smelly bar and took a seat, ordering a beer and a menu.

I ordered the burger and fries, partially to try on this new persona that I had seemed to be adopting.

I had stopped eating red meat eight years ago, and would normally order some “yuppy-food” like a tofu burger and green salad, dressing on the side.

As I waited for what was surely to be a cardiac on a plate,  I decided to turn on my phone.  As it blinked alive, it flashed the number 30 at me.

Thirty new messages.  All from my fiancé or my parents.  All except one.

That one was from a Chicago number.

I knew no one in Chicago.

I skipped all the messages from my loved ones in Vancouver and pressed play.

A smooth, deep voice spoke to me.

“um…hello…..I’m uh….I’m looking for Stacey?  I mean, um, you may not call yourself Stacey anymore but um….well, you see…this is really weird.   Um…Okay here’s the deal.  My name’s Eric…well, apparently, my name is really Andrew…and …well…well I’m apparently your brother….”

I dropped the phone, not waiting for the message to finish, my mouth hanging open in shock.

I threw some cash on the bar, grabbed my phone and ran out the door to the car.

I had been heading in the wrong direction.  I was supposed to be heading to Chicago.

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Supermaren challenged me with “why the dung beetle dances” and I challenged The Lime with “Write a memoir on how you met your significant other or best friend, but write it as if it were set in medieval times.”

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