untitled

I hope someday you understand. It’s not something I’m proud of and I wish things could have turned out differently. I remember how scared I was. The rope was burning and the tiny splinters in the braid were digging into my neck. My mind was racing and my heart was beating out of my chest. But I was wearing the tie you gave me on my 35th birthday. I hope you noticed. It didn’t take long after I kicked the chair out, but I remember the last thing that crossed my mind. It was you.

It was all of you, but I remembered one day in particular. It was six am and I was on my way over to the house. I finally had a few free hours and you had been begging to go fishing. I had told you the night before that it had to be early because that’s when the fish bite. That may have been the truth, but by ten I had a date with the tracks again, so I had to squeeze you in early. I wasn’t sure if you were even going to be up and ready, so I had tacked on an extra thirty minutes for your mother to help you get dressed, brush your teeth, and grab some breakfast. And then of course another twenty for getting your pole together and your little tackle box that you got for Christmas. I knew it would have been an hour before we actually got down to the lake. When I pulled into the driveway, I didn’t see you at first. After I shut the car door, I heard your voice echo through the whole neighborhood. And there you were. Sitting on the porch. You had my old dirty fishing hat on your head; it nearly covered your eyes. Your mom must have bought you a new fishing vest because you stuck your chest out proudly to show me all the pockets to hold the worms. Your sandals were on the wrong feet as usual and your left front tooth still hadn’t grown in, but you smiled anyway. You jumped up when you saw me come around to the front yard, but you had also forgotten that your fishing pole was between your legs and you caught yourself in the eye with the end of the pole. You weren’t hurt, but there were tears of course.

As we loaded your Snoopy pole and matching tackle box into the truck, I looked down and that’s what I remembered. That right there. You smiled that lopsided grin of yours and I pushed the hat back out of your eyes. “Thanks, Dad. Mom said you weren’t gonna come, but I knew you would. I just knew it.” You were six then. We only caught one fish, but that was all we needed anyway.

With the chair turned over, my feet dangled above the coffee table and the ceiling fan was swaying with my weight. It was really starting to hurt, but I remembered that Saturday and that smile. Nothing else mattered then and that’s when I started counting the patterns in the ceiling tiles until it became dark.

It’s been twenty-seven days. It took eleven days for me to even be able to look down. It was too hard. The following twenty-four hours they make us watch. Every hour, every minute, every second. It’s one of the rules up here. It’s not quite heaven yet, so you can still feel and hurt. Those twenty-four hours hurt worse than the death itself.

I didn’t know you were coming over that day. It had been about two hours when I heard the front door unlock. I looked down hoping for anyone but you. You dropped your backpack by the door and went to the kitchen. You hollered for me. I’m not here. I’m not here. Just go home. I’m at work. Don’t go in the living room. Please don’t go in the living room. I was a nervous wreck up here and I was screaming at you. I tried so hard to get your attention and make you get out, but you never listen.

You came around the corner with a root beer in your hand. I really didn’t want to see this part, but I had to follow the rules. The root beer lay on the floor, soaking into the carpet while you ran. The phone was off the hook and while you were crying and searching for it, you got sick. I was pretty merciless when I picked my location. There I was in the center of the house, the phone a few inches from my feet. I was sobbing by then and you were throwing up next to the coffee table. In the kitchen your fingers shook as you called 911. You weren’t making any sense, but they got the address. The sirens were nearby when you finally got a hold of your mother. “Mom. Dad’s dead.” Click. Those three words were all you could say by then as you slumped down on the kitchen floor.

I was cursing myself for the next several hours and the pain I felt for doing this to you was more than I could bear. Oh, but son, that was only the beginning. When I saw her, I lost it completely. Those brown eyes of hers were red from crying on the way over. I was already on the stretcher under a sheet which was probably a good thing. She found you immediately as any mother would and there the two of you wept. In my driveway stood the two most important people in my life sobbing over a man that never deserved them. What a fucked up twenty-four hours.

So, it’s been twenty-seven days. You’re leaving for school in a few weeks. I was supposed to go and help you move in, but we both knew I wouldn’t have shown up. At about fifteen you stopped believing me. I noticed it and so did your mother. Maybe it was the hundred or so times you had sat on the front porch waiting for me to come and I never did. Not even a phone call to explain why. Or maybe it was all the empty promises of nice vacations every summer, guitar lessons, a full day of golf, just you and me. Or maybe even just the promise of still being in your life after the divorce. Biggest lie I ever told.

I’m not exactly sure when it all started, but the day she packed her things I knew I had made a mistake. You were four and didn’t understand. I had already gambled away what little we had saved for your life savings. Your mother’s engagement ring sat in a dirty pawn shop by the highway and what did I have to show for it? Divorce papers and no self-respect. There was never another woman; there was never another man. It was always me and your mother. And it was always my addiction.

I missed your third birthday because I couldn’t walk away from the tracks. My pockets were near bare and I still didn’t have you a birthday present yet, but that was the furthest thing from my mind. I had to win this time. You had just blown out your candles and I had just blown all my money. I came home that night empty-handed and alone.

Your mother tried to make it work. She put up with it for years and she even gave me a break when she decided on joint custody. Too bad I still hadn’t learned from my mistakes. I’m sure you remember the weekends you spent with me. The thick cigarette smoke and hordes of drunk men with empty pockets much like myself. Every now and then I would let you pick the horse and you always picked the one with the coolest name. Of course I never put my money on it because it was never about what you wanted; it was about me. Always about me.

I had gotten the rope from Home Depot that morning and on my way back home I had convinced myself that it was the only way. I had been thinking about it seriously for quite some time then and that day seemed just as good as any. I was the epitome of a man living for nothing. She had full custody of you by then and up until your eighteenth birthday, she forbid you to see me. It was a smart thing to do although I would have never admitted it. She saw more of me in you everyday and she was getting worried. You hated her for it and never missed a moment to let her know. She really missed you and hated me for making you this way. By then I was nothing but a shell, but you still held on. You still clung to some relationship that you wished that we had but it had never existed. If anything, son, you were the only one who refused to give up on me. You stuck your hand out again and again for a father that never deserved a second chance.

Twenty seven days later I look down and I see you. I can tell you’re scared. She’s still at work so the house is still except for your heavy breathing. You bought the gun last week and I can see it in the shoe box under your bed. I didn’t see you buy it, but I’m sure you were nervous. You had swiped her credit card, but you’re thinking she won’t see the bill until after it’s over. The palms of your hands are sweaty as you pull out the old box. What have I done?I thought after I was gone, it would have solved some problems. I was bankrupt, alone, and angry. You were the only one who had kept me alive for even that long and the deciding factor for me was you. I could tell I had always had a crippling effect on your life and in some ways, my handicap had rubbed off on you and I had finally begun to see it. I had blown every chance given to me and I had exhausted all other options. I thought it was for the best. Everyday you defended me and held yourself back from so many things to hobble along next to your already dead father. With that rope around my neck, in some perverse way, I felt I was freeing you. In order for you to truly live, I felt I needed to die. I couldn’t do it any longer; to you or to your mother. I hoped someday you would understand. But twenty seven days later, I’m watching you pull out a pistol.

Do you really want to do this? Think about it, Son. Don’t be a coward like me. Put the gun down. Just put it down. I’m screaming now as you’re loading a single bullet. There’s some heavy metal band playing in the background. I didn’t know you liked that kind of music. I had always liked country and your mother preferred classic rock; you always had to be different. You’re turning up the volume now. You’re trying to silence the sound of the gun being fired. You’re thinking if no one hears it, no one will come and try to save you. But I’ll hear it. Damn it, you’re not slowing down. Why can’t you hear me? Why don’t you ever listen? DON’T DO THIS! PUT IT DOWN!

There was a lot of blood wasn’t there? Your hands were shaking when you put it in your mouth. You hesitated for just a second and I thought for sure that you might reconsider. But here you are.

Were you scared? I saw your fingers shaking when you pulled the trigger. I sure as hell was. I was scared when I took the plunge and I was scared for you when you pulled out that box. I mean, damn it son, where did we go wrong? Life isn’t supposed to end like this. We’re not supposed to be having this kind of conversation. We’re supposed to talk about girls, cars, sports, politics. Not ‘what do we do now?’ Everything is just so fucked up isn’t it? I thought this would make me happy, but look at me, I can’t stop crying. And you. Are you happy? Are you?

So here we are in this sort of inbetween. Father and Son. Just another couple of statistics. But then again, I was a statistic long before I bought that rope. I was in the large margin of invisible fathers. The ones that escape the child support, the ones that have mixed up priorities, and the ones that just buckle under the pressure of it all. I was that statistic. And you, my boy, are in the large margin of adolescents who pretend to hate the world. Although your case was different, they’ll still chalk it up to teen angst. The ones that wear a permanent scowl, the ones that have notebooks full of dark poetry, and the ones that, in the end, truly believe no one will ever understand them. You will become that statistic.

It’s been twenty seven days and here you are. You look taller. And you haven’t shaved in a few days. Your mother told me once that you were graduating with an academic honors diploma and that you managed to get yourself in the top ten percent of your class. I guess it takes us both being up here for me to say congratulations. I’m not even going to apologize anymore because I know it’s long past that point. I mean, honestly, how do I even begin to tell you sorry for not ever being there? How do I say sorry for the pain I’ve caused you and most importantly, sorry for not being there to make you put down the gun? There are never going to be enough words to fix that one.

So here we are. Father and Son. Murderer and murdered. She’s pulling into the driveway now. I can hear her keys in the front door. Her purse is on the counter and she’s yelling your name. Watch closely son. Your twenty four hours has just begun.