Unintended Consequences

Some traits are taken for granted, such as the ability to tan. As a redhead, I myself have never been able to tan, so where others may bake into a golden bronze hue, my skin instead chooses to flare up into a neon red.

I can barely manage an hour under the sun before I feel the heat tingling just below the surface of my skin. An awful feeling that if left unchecked, leads to being sick for two to five days depending on the severity of the burn.

I recall once, when I was a child, laying on the couch, the entirety of my body covered in burns. I could barely move or speak, and, as was common with my most terrible burns, large, moisture filled blisters had swelled up along my shoulders.

Hours earlier we had been on a trip to Malibu beach along with other families and friends. The plan was to have a fun day, enjoy the waves of the ocean, play in the sand, and absorb some sun.

I, of course, could not do the latter, so instead I wore a shirt and was covered from head to toe in sunscreen. We would learn that day that sunscreen simply delayed, rather than prevented, the burning of my skin.

After prolonged exposure, the skin turned tight, red and raw. No position I sat in, no amount of breeze from the window, no amount of ice pressed against my forehead was able to reduce the immense amount of heat and pain my body was producing.

So we went home. Not our home, not my home, but the home of a family friend to continue the outing with a barbeque and drinks.

I was left on the couch facing the television, a Showtime Lakers game playing out in front of my itching eyes.

Finally, somehow, I was able to fall asleep, only to be awoken by Simone, my father’s friend. He began jumping on the couch urging me to join the party, then slapped me on the back to accentuate his invite.

Simone, you see, was oblivious and an alcoholic.

I let out a scream of pain unlike any I had ever produced. The burn and sting of his slap merged to create a completely foreign and unwelcome feeling radiating from my back through my whole body, as though all the burned skin was aflame.

Hearing my wail, my brother, ever protective, ran in. “Can’t you see he’s burned all over!” he yelled at Simone, who then a bit more cautiously looked me over, noticing the blisters and burned skin.

Feeling bad, Simone figured it was best to make amends. He gathered up all the kids currently in the house, loaded us up into his car, promising to take us to go get ice cream.

What Simone had failed to do was inform any of the parents. He failed to inform them about his intentions. Or that he had taken the kids. Or that he was driving them from Woodland Hills to Pasadena, about 30 miles away.

My father’s handgun, which he would later keep hidden in my underwear drawer, was pulled from the back of his pants. Before he had a chance to aim, my father was stopped through the combined efforts of my mother, the homeowners, and Simone's wife, all of whom struggled to point the gun away as they worked to calm him down.

Livid from an earlier argument with Simone, my father was now looking to settle the issue once and for all. His rage, fueled by Simone's drunken nonchalance, pushing him to commit murder.

And none of this would have been an issue if I was able to tan.