Behind Closed Doors (Erik Menendez)

One

One could say I was privileged.

I lived in Beverly Hills with my father, mother, and older sister my entire life. From the moment I was born, all I have known was our mid-sized, two story house with a small pool in the lush, green backyard. My entire life I was surrounded by the most arrogant, uptight, and privileged people in California, and probably in all of America. My father had a relatively high-up position at General Electric, a position I never fully understood because I was never interested enough to know exactly what my dad did. All I knew is that he made the money, he bought us gifts, and made us all very happy. My father, a California native, had been raised that way, to work hard and make a good living for his family. My mother, however, had much more humble beginnings. She was raised in a small town in North Carolina, her father a farmer and her mother making clothes to sell locally. Both of my parents were raised in stable, happy, and loving environments, but my mom's childhood always seemed the warmest. Hot, summer days at the beach, finding bugs and frogs down at the swamp, and coming home to a warm, delicious southern meal to eat with her 3 siblings.

This being said, my parents weren't like all the other residents in Beverly Hills. My parents were self-aware, kind, generous, and never pompous. Yes, we had money, but we knew that it didn't make us better than anybody else. My parents made certain that we always held this humble mindset and never looked down on those with less money. "Not everyone is as lucky as your father," my mom would always tell us in her warm Carolina accent.

My sister, Sarah, 3 years older than me, had been attending UCLA. She was always smart and hard-working, very similar to my father. My mother was smart and a hard-worker, too, but my father was always very straight-forward and liked to get things done. Sarah was the same way, hardly letting her emotions or problems get in her way and making sure that she would achieve her dreams of getting into UCLA's nursing program.

I was always more like my mother. I still could get decent grades and worked hard, but I knew I'd never achieve the same things as Sarah because I cared too much about other things. I liked to spend my time sketching and painting, or listening to music. The arts touched me more than history or math ever could, and that is what connected me to my mother so much. She had a beautiful singing voice, and dabbled in watercolor paintings. My parents never gave me a hard time about my true priorities, either. They always congratulated me on grades as long as they were a B or above; anything below was met with: "Did you try your hardest?" I would answer yes, and they'd respond with a soft, "Then that's all that matters."

I was content with my life. I had many friends at school, was beginning my senior year, and began to think about where I would take my life next. My summer had just ended, and so I now got myself ready for my last first day of high school ever. A smile spread across my face as my alarm went off - I had never been so ready for school in my life. This was the beginning of the end, an end that would take me to bigger and better things.

~ Fall 1988 ~

"Are ya up, Joanne?!" I hear my mom yell in her southern twang. With my toothbrush shoved I my mouth, toothpaste dripping down my chin, I groan.

"Yes, mom!" I yell back through toothpaste foam.

"That's my senior!" She yells, followed by a 'woo!'. Mom - always my biggest cheerleader. I laugh and spit out my toothpaste, proceeding to look in the mirror at my long, brown hair and blue eyes. I have made sure to look my best for this special occasion, wearing a thick, white headband in my hair to match my white pants. I don white Keds and a small, baby blue sweater vest. I of course throw in my staple pearl earrings, wink at my reflection, and make my way down the stairs.

Breakfast is quick, as I have to make sure I'll get to school in time for my friends and I to mingle as much as possible before the first bell. With a quick hug and kiss from my parents, I zip out the door and hop into my cherry-red Volkswagen Beetle. Just as I begin to back out of our driveway, though, I slam on the breaks immediately. Speeding by comes a tan Mercedes-Benz convertible, driven by a boy around my age. "Jesus!" I can't help but yell, although he's already way down the street. 2 years I've been driving and I've never experienced such recklessness on my street. With a huff, I calm down my pounding heart and carefully continue to pull out.