A Short Story: The Story Of A Story

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Gale sat slumped at the kitchen table, face buried in his hands as he tried desperately to think a way out of this hole he and his family had been thrown into. It had been a little over 48 hours since his Ma had passed away. Eight hours since her funeral. 50 hours since he last slept. The sickest part of this cruel joke was that he hardly had any time to grieve the loss of his last remaining parent, whom he had loved endlessly, because he was consumed by the unrelenting fear of having his three younger siblings stolen from him. What was he supposed to tell CPS if-when they showed up to their doorstep? How could he, a 20 year old mechanic with no college education argue that he could take care of a 6 year old little girl, and two teenage boys? The money would be tight-they’d have to move into a one bedroom apartment probably, but if Rory took on a part time job and Posy was pulled out of her dance class, they could make it work. But would the fucking system believe that? He hears a whimper come from down the hall, and sighs. Posy is just a baby, crying for her Ma in her sleep, she can’t survive foster care. Then there was Vick, who was too gullible and trusting for his own good. Even Rory, who liked to walk around thinking he was the shit, would be unable to make it in such a dire environment. His musings of despair is interrupted by a frantic knock on the door. Gale glances at the clock and frowns. Who on Earth was stopping by this late to pay their condolences?

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