A Father's Legacy

Entry #1 - Round 1

I didn’t expect to feel remorse as I stood before his grave. The beatings, the angry words, the scars on my heart that would never heal had all come from him. Yet, as I stood in the cemetery staring at the piece of engraved stone, the mournful moon my only company, I couldn’t halt the tears streaming down my face. I fell to the ground sobbing, tiny droplets hitting the stone, mirroring the multitude of stars spiraling overhead. He was a monster- he was my father. He was my mentor – he was my tormentor. He was everything I had ever hoped to be – and everything I had ever hated. My voice mixed my screams of fury and my sobs of despair.

I wanted to fix my past but couldn't. The clock could only continue its steady march forward. I couldn’t erase the pain, the sorrow, from my soul. I laid my rose upon the stone and read the engraving one last time:

Harvey Mitchell
Valued Father and Trusted Friend

I remembered the times we had shared. Times when he had cherished me, held me so close to his heart that I thought that he could never abandon me. I was so warm bundled up in his adoration, his pride, for me. Then I remembered the times of anger, of drunken battles, of words and actions that I could never forgive. The times when I had felt so isolate and desolate that no one would ever be able to rescue me from the pit my life had become. I had expected to feel relief. I had expected to feel content. I had pictured myself dancing on the grave of my jailer, my abuser, my father.

I hadn’t expected to feel Love… for I was the one who had killed him.

Word count: 299
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Entry #2 - Round 2

I remember the first day he hit me— it was Christmas, when my mom was still alive. Every year, she would knit me a wool sweater, because we were poor and it was all we could afford. My dad was only a laborer, and my mom was always sick. But she could knit, and she enjoyed it. They were the most unusual sweaters— all sorts of crazy designs weaving to and fro, forming a unique harmony from the chaos. I would parade them in front of her each year and she would laugh. She never laughed very often.

But that Christmas— my eighth— there wasn’t a sweater; there was a bicycle. A little two wheeler all my own! My dad had it set in his mind that I would learn to ride that very day. So I put on my heaviest coat and walked outside with him into the chilly air. I climbed onto the seat, and he pushed me along— and it was the most wonderful feeling in the world. I felt like I was flying, the air against my face, my father with me. I loved him then. But then he let go, and I crashed. But we weren’t upset; I wasn’t hurt because my thick coat had cushioned me. We tried again. And again. And again. We tried all day without a break, and I watched my father’s face grow sourer. And sourer. And sourer. I was exhausted— eventually I just sat down, cried, and refused to move. Then, my father hauled me inside, grabbed the nearest object— a black magic marker— and smacked me. And smacked me. And smacked me.

But I didn’t hate him, not then. You see- we went right back outside, he set me on that bike, pushed me—
And I rode…

Word count: 299

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Entry #3 - Round 3

My parents had always refused to tell me why my mother was always sick, it was always their little secret. I tried countless ways to get them to tell me, but it was always:

"We'll tell you when you're older,"

"You're better off not knowing."

I didn't believe them, at least, not until they did tell me. She had leukemia, and was slated to die within months of my learning.

She died in October. At the hospital, she looked more dead than alive, with all of those tubes and wires. I was frightened, but being with my father gave me courage. Finally, she passed on, leaving us behind.

The ride home was quiet. At home, we simply went off to bed, but I couldn't sleep. I could only think of her- her touch, her smell, she seemed to permeate my being. I couldn't get rid of her. I went to see my father- wondering if he was having as much trouble as I was- and was shocked to find him crying. He never cried. He was grabbing at something in his sleep. I came closer, and he grasped me, and clutched me, and caressed me, and I felt the full extent of his passion, his agony, his love, his fear, his pain, and I soon found myself crying along with him. We cried all night, waves of grief flowing from us. That night my mother died was the first time I truly knew my father: he showed himself to be a man like any other. I had only known him as- an entity. Something above reality, without emotion. But he wasn't- he was suffering like the rest of us. I loved him even more, that night, more than I ever thought I could, and more than I ever have.

Word Count: 299
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Entry #4 - Round 6

After I moved out of my childhood and into college, I met this girl in one of my classes-Helen. She had a certain quality that was unique, I had dated other girls, but there was a certain spark to her. The way she talked a little louder, walked a little prouder. Her confidence, I loved it. My Father didn't. The one time I had them meet, to ask his permission to marry her, he threw her out of the house and lectured me on women. He demanded I marry a woman I could control, who I could handle. I couldn't take it. I loved her too much, and so we decided to get married without his consent.

We held the wedding in the church she had attended as a child. It was a small chapel, but it had the most magnificent garden in the town. It was especially beautiful in the early spring, when the dazzling colors brightened the cold march air. I hadn’t invited my father, but he was there anyway. He got up to the altar, and began the most horrifying speech anyone could give. He called my new wife a dirty slut, not fit for his son. It hurt so much. Not only his horrid words, not just my anger, but this awful feeling of regret. That I hadn't been able to meet his expectations. That I had failed him once again in my miserable retched life. I couldn’t face that again, so I ran. Grabbing her hand we fled the church, echoes of the insults chasing me. As I fled, I felt a new feeling grow inside me— hatred. I hated him and what he wanted me to be. But always, there is this shame that I couldn’t be what he wanted— I hate that too.


Word Count: 300
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Entry #5 - Round 8

One week before my son’s tenth birthday, he came running up to me waving a piece of paper. “Daddy! Daddy! I made a list of what I want for my birthday! Look’t it! Look’t it!”
I took it from him and looked it over.

One. A playstation. Not happening.

Two. A dog. Also not happening.

Three. A bike. That could happen.

And so, on my son’s tenth birthday I got him a bike, just like the one my father had gotten me when I turned eight. At his begging we went outside and tried it out right away. It was his first time riding without training wheels. Watching his struggle up onto the bike seat filled me with pride. I balanced him and pushed him along down the street- the whole way he was laughing with joy. I let go, and he wobbled for a few feet before falling over. We tried all day, and I was starting to get tired of failure, as was my son, but I wanted him to ride it, so we kept going. Eventually, he started crying and refused to get on again. Exhausted, I remembered then what my dad had done with me. I hit him. I smacked my son right across the face. He didn’t cry; he looked stunned. I lifted him back onto the bike, told him to pedal, and... it worked. My son rode the bike all on his own, up and down the street. But I was scared by what I had done. I felt guilty for what had happened— what my father had made me do. I felt myself turning into him, and that frightened me. But what I hated most of all was that it had worked. That, and I hated my Father enough to kill him.

Word Count: 299
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Entry #6 – Round 9

I paused at the bottom of the stairs leading up to my childhood home. The lights were off, but I could see a dim flickering in the front room from the television. I braced myself, walked up to the door, and knocked.

“Who’s that? I don’t want to talk so leave!”

“It’s your son.”

The door opened, and there stood the father I hadn’t seen for twelve years. He looked ragged, old. His aura of power had diminished; he was just a frail old man. We stood looking into each other’s eyes, neither of us wanting to break the stare. “Well, are you going to come in?” he said to me.

Hesitantly I stepped into the door, and walked up the entry stairs to the kitchen where a pot of coffee churned happily. He poured a cup for both of us, and we sat at the table, not talking. The silence was broken by him, “So, why are you here? I never thought I’d see you again after you married that whore.”

“She’s not a whore.”

“Like hell she’s not, and you know it.”

“I only came to say that I hate you. I loathe you with all of my being, and I wish that—“ He slapped me, and I felt my rage bubbling up.

“It’s really too bad that you feel that way, but you don’t talk—“

“Don’t ever hit me again.”

So he hit me again, and I lunged at him across the table, and the fear was clear in his eyes. I picked him up, walked to the stairs and hurled him. And as I gazed at his twisted body, all I could do was laugh. I was finally free, free from my tormentor, but I should have known that he would never free me.

Word Count: 300
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Entry #7 - Round 10

I got home from the cemetery and walked into the kitchen where there was a deck of cards sitting out. Helen and my son had been playing a game before they went to bed. It was late, and I did my best not to wake them. I went to a drawer, put away the cards and took out an unmailed letter for my wife. Putting the letter in my pocket, I went back to the closet and took out my scarf and my handgun, slipping it into my pocket. Heading out the door, I put the letter in a postbox down the street, and headed back to the house where I sat on the steps looking at the gun. I refused to become like my father. I couldn’t do that to my son. And so I took my own life.

*

The death was a shock for Helen, but a few days later she received a letter in the mail addressed to her. She read it with shaking hands:

Helen,

I love you more than you can ever imagine, and I love our son even more. That is why I had to kill myself. I know that you don’t think it will, but I hope my death will bring you peace.

I love you always,

Harvey Mitchell

Helen read the letter several times, and finally stood to get her son from his room where he was crying.

“Harvey dear? Would you like to go see your father in the cemetery?”

The boy nodded, and with his mom, they stood over the grave for a long into the night. They both cried, but both knew, that somehow it had been for the best. Before they left, little Harvey traced the engraving one last time.

Harvey Mitchell
Beloved Father and Treasured Son

Word Count: 300