When I Die

Decay

Dad came home yesterday, packed things up, moved out. And I was asleep. He didn't even say goodbye. I want to believe he did it because he couldn't bear to say farewell; but all I really think of is he did it because he shut that book off long ago.

Found a note in my cupboard in the morning. "Bye, champ," it said. That's all. Nothing else.

There are a lot of things I wanted to tell him... and now I can't remember most of them.

I wanted to tell him he's a good man.

I wanted to wish him luck with his life.

No regrets, I wanted to say--which is a big lie.

I wanted to tell him that he's the best Pop anyone could've had.

I wanted to thank him for blessing most of my life with his presence.

I wanted to thank him for being my father.

I wanted to tell him that he was one rocking Dad, all right. Top class all the way.

I wanted to tell him that I love him, if nothing else.

When everything's said and done, I think that's the only thing that matters. I love him.

For everything he did; for everything he didn't; in all the smiles and giggles; in all the beatings and tears; I loved him.

I wish I could imagine a miracle happening; wish I could wish him back home again. But wishes are futile, I of all people should know that.

But, oh, I'm gonna miss him so damn much. I already miss him so damn much. He wasn't there at home for more than two weeks a year, but those fourteen days were more than enough.

More than enough, Pops.

Here's a cheer to you then, Pops. Stay happy, whatever you do. Just hope you remember this little kiddo here once in a while.

Is that too much to hope for?

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Mom's acting like she doesn't really care and that she isn't sad. She's covering it up rather well. I tried talking with her a few times, but all I got was a hasty dismissal each time. I guess I'll have to wait till she herself wants to open up.

Nobody at college or home knows about Dad leaving, and I don't want them to. There's no shame involved; I just don't want everyone reminding me about him with their occasionally serious worry and comfort.

Granny's dying. She's on life-support now. And though she didn't exactly leave a will behind, I think she doesn't like living at the mercy of tubes and machines. I wouldn't.

I'm studying. I think it's helping. It's keeping my mind off everything else. At least for a while. Because just about everything else--music, writing, everything--reminds me of everyone I've lost.

I guess I should be angry. And I think I am... but I'm also serene, as if somewhere in the recesses of my mind I've accepted the fact that bad things are supposed to happen in my life. That of I'm one of those people Fate decided to screw up right from the first time I opened my eyes.

All that hate and sorrow has sunk in deep this time, I think. So deep that I can't even find it; let alone emote it.

Thing is this: Hearts are strong; but they break.

Hearts break hard.

Hearts break hard and when they do, they never mend. They forget what little happiness they knew. And once you're jaded, nothing anyone--including yourself--does will change you.

That sorrow surrounds you throughout your life--like a black residual ectoplasm. And it affects everyone around you. It doesn't let you break away.

You see that shadow everywhere. Even when something wonderful does happen. You see sadness even in sanguine joy.

That blackness becomes your vision. Your life.

You become that blackness.

You become sorrow.

You become it.

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I've been damaged, you see. Damaged right in that very part of me that forms the basis of my beliefs. My core. The place that believes in goodness, in love, in beauty, in joy.

I need some release.

My mind and body need some warmth, if you can dig that.

Dad's going away has finally done what everything else tried to. It broke me. Broke me at the very fundamental sliver that defines me.

Maybe those shields are finally broken, maybe all my resistance is now empty. Or maybe I'm weak. But it comes down to this: I'm surrendering now. I'm surrendering everything I thought was sacred and true and worth living for.

I could've lived with physical hurt. Could've lived with broken bones. Could've lived with loneliness. But living life doing nothing but waiting for the next blow... getting hit and trying to stand up, only to be knocked down again... I can't. I don't want to.

Call it emotional breakdown, call it post-adolescent fucking angst, call it sexual fucking longing, call it nervous buggery, call it mental overload, call it whatever the fuck you want to; but whatever it is, I'm right at the brink now. At the very boundary of rational thought.

And I'm afraid of what might happen. I'm afraid that death is not the worst that can. I'm afraid that I'll live. Live dead. Live burned away.

Live corrupted.

And what's scaring me the most is I'm afraid that it's already begun:

Decay.