Time to announce the winner of last week’s writing challenge!
Last week we asked writers to write about family feud (real or imagined) told from the perspective of each of the characters involved in the conflict. This challenge helps writers try to envision how people can view the same event differently based on their own unique world view.
Congratulations go to Emily Sauer, whose winning entry took this idea and constructed a unique story in which readers can hear from the characters directly, line by line.
Check out Emily’s winning entry below!
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Family Feud
Emily Sauer
My mom raised me to be a feminist. She taught me that women are no different than men, but, to the world, we are two different sexes. Now the world hates me, for treating a woman the way I’d treat a man.
My mom raised me, telling me I always deserved the best. If a man didn’t treat me like a princess, he wasn’t good enough for me. That I was worth it, but in this world there are no more princes for the princesses. We have to fight our own battles. Slay our own dragons.
I loved her. The world doesn’t think so, but I loved her. I still do. She was wild. She always wanted attention, especially from men. She needed attention like the rest of the world needs oxygen. My attentions were never enough. She always wanted more. I was never enough.
He never loved me. He loved that I loved him, he loved being loved. He loved that I had money. He loved that I would buy him presents, even though he never spent a dime on me, outside the wedding ring. He loved I loved him so much, that I lost myself along the way. A lost girl couldn’t leave him.
She was always jealous. I didn’t matter if it was the nice middle-aged woman at the grocery story who I told to have a nice day, the young woman at the tattoo shop who I’d ask about her child and husband, or the waitress who I tipped well. I was raised to be friendly to everyone. What she saw as flirting was me being friendly.
If it had two legs, tits, and a vagina, he’d hit on it. Right in front of me. It was embarrassing. I hated the sad looks I would get from the women he hit on, with pity in their eyes. They were always compelled to flirt back. What kind of woman does that, when the man’s wife is standing right there. I hated them for allowing it. No respect for other women, no respect for themselves. I have never been able to pick out what it was the burned in my heart: anger or pain.
We were driving home after a party at a buddy’s place. I’d only had a few beers, so I was still good to drive. As we were turning onto the street I live on, my phone buzzed with a text message. I didn’t think anything of it, thinking it was one of the guys from the party asking why I left early tonight.
We left the party earlier that night, I didn’t know why at then, but I have a better idea now. He had been drinking and I didn’t like him driving. He insisted he was fine. If 5 beers in two hours makes you sober, then I suppose I was sober too with three double vodka cranberries. When we were about back to his place, his phone went off. He said it was a friend, but it wasn’t.
When we got into the house, she demanded to see my phone. She was convinced it was a girl I was cheating on her with. The text was from Charlotte. It said, “Are you free to talk?”. That’s when she lost it.
When we got inside I asked to see his phone. I was tired of him going behind my back and talking to the kind of woman who goes after taken men. It was from a Charlotte, asking if he was free to talk. She clearly knew about me and was practically asking if I was asleep or busy.
Before I could explain who Charlotte was, she went off on me. Accusing me of sleeping with Charlotte. Accusing me of going behind her back with other women too. All the time. She was my girl, my wife. She knew I didn’t have any game. But still she accused me.
I had enough. This text was the final straw. I let go. I let him know how unacceptable it was to go behind my back. I let him know how much it broke me each time he flirted with a cashier or waitress. How much it hurt my heart.
I told her to calm down, so I could explain that Charlotte was my little sister’s best friend. She’d been at our wedding. Her dad had died when she was little. Since my own dad had left our family when my sister was little they bonded quickly. Charlotte was a non-related little sister to me. I loved the girl like I loved my own sister. She’d been having trouble with her boyfriend and with school. She would never just call. She always texted first, to make sure I was free. She never wanted to trouble anybody.
He tried to defend himself. Telling me she was like a sister to him. What bullshit. I asked him how I was supposed to believe him after everything he’d done. All the lies he’d told. I walked over to him, so he could see the hurt in my eyes.
She walked over to me with the shoe in her hand she’d just taken off. A bright pink heel. She waved it around angrily. She was small, but she was tough. I put up my hands to defend myself from her shoe.
He didn’t see the hurt. He raised his hand to hit me. So I swung first, to defend myself.
She swung at me and got me in the side of the head with her heel. I felt blood start to trickle down my face. I grabbed at the shoe to stop her already poised hand to strike again.
I hit him and then he really came after me. Grabbing at my one weapon. I was terrified. I went at him with everything I had. It was the only thing I could think of to make sure I got out of there.
She started wildly attacking me. She landed a few more blows. I couldn’t grab her to calm her down. I hit her. I didn’t hit her as hard as I could. Even though men and women should be treated the same, I knew I couldn’t hit her like I was fighting me for my life. I hit her enough to make her stop and think. I worked. She didn’t bleed. She didn’t even have a scratch. I don’t think I hit her hard enough to even leave a bruise.
He hit me with all his strength. It knocked the wind out of me. Thank God there was a knock on the door then. It was the cops. The neighbors must have heard the fight.
The cops showed up then, as she was in tears. Crying over and over that I’d hit her.
I was crying from shock. When the cops asked what happened I told them he came at me. He hit me.
The cops arrested me for beating up my wife. No one believed I acted in self-defense. She made herself the victim. When the real victim was me.
They arrested him. I finally felt at peace. He couldn’t hurt me anymore. He couldn’t break my heart again. I was relieved. I could feel myself relax for the first time in a long time.
I was cast as the villain.
I was cast as a victim.
I wasn’t and I am not.
I wasn’t and I am not.
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