Untitled

I've always had this strange attraction to death. Death and life after death are things we all crave to understand. The things we can't permanently say we know exactly how they work. I admit, death scares me. All your thoughts, ideas, memories, everything your brain has ever consumed is all of a sudden just - shut off. It doesn't exist anymore. Everything you see, colors, beauty, the world in general, all becomes a big black screen. It's horrifying to think about. What's done, is done. When it's over, it's over. And the older we get, the more we lose what we love to this big black screen. And when one of these things is a parent, well it makes it a little darker.
I light up a cigarette, sitting on the porch of my friends apartment. I don't have a lot of money, and work in a pet store, so I stay with Derek. I've never been the biggest fan of girls, so living with a guy is fine for me. I make friends better with the male species. Girls are catty.
My father passed away from lymphnodic cancer just two days ago. We all saw it coming, but when the moment actually happened I can't explain the amount of guilt I felt. It's funny how people handle situations like that. I knew my father was dying, but I tried to ignore it out of my own fear. As if not acknowledging his illness would somehow change it by a miracle. Life doesn't work like that. It may put you at ease for a time being, ignoring the real issue in front of you, but when the person you're just "hoping" for actually dies, it's so uncomfortable. Taking another drag, I just sit and think. I feel guilt every single day just because of my own selfishness. My father once called me every single day for three weeks. He left a voicemail every single time, not once raising his voice or seeming irate. He just wanted to know how his baby girl was doing. And me? Too scared and uncomfortable to call him back. It's like I would have a mental block and something in me was building a wall. Some sort if preparation for when I actually had to face reality. Well, I've never been so unprepared for something in my life. I just feel awful. The throw the remaining drag of the cigarette into a dirty coffee can, and proceed to light another. I'm high. I'm always high when I'm not working. It calms me, and lightens my mood. And cigarettes after a big bowl of weed is a necessity for me. Almost as much as the Xanax the ER doctor gave me the other day. Yeah, when my father actually passed and I got the phone call, I didn't really handle it with much stability. I can't say I've developed the greatest habits or willpower for that matter.
I have two brothers. They're both much older, married, and have kids. Because of the age difference I'm not very close with them. But also because they're older, they became in charge of all the legality issues. Health care proxy, power of attorney, financial organization, living situations, storage units, all that bullshit. Things they refused to include me in on. And now funeral planning. The funeral is today. In my father's original hometown, Pittstown, NY. A place where it's shocking to see a paved road, a yard without a tractor, or anybody with nice shoes. This is an authentic place where he's known and people appreciate him. And even if there's no life after death, we all know he would be happy to be there. Now I just need to find that one personal thing that I can do to make sure he knows he is loved by me. It's the only thing that will make me feel better mentally and physically. It's all the guilt has allowed me to think about.
Clearly, I'm a very anxious and stubborn person. I cause myself to be put into stressful situations by over thinking them. And there's nothing too positive about these characteristics, because a lot of the time it stops me from doing what I desire to do. For example, music. I've been playing music since I was 9 years old, and singing car and shower karaoke as long as I can remember. My father was a disc jockey for 32 years with his company called, Music Unlimited. I remember going to a bunch of events he was working. Wedding parties, team banquets, anniversaries, I've always been surrounded by people loving music, all because of him. He was my hero growing up. My parents separated when I was 7, and I would go to my father's house every weekend. My mother is awful. She never had the slightest interest in what I wanted to do, or even say. I used to cry in his arms on Sunday nights because I didn't want to see my mother, I wanted to stay with him. He was my main motivation to enjoy some of my childhood. He especially was my motivation for music. And still is. He would talk so highly of me to everyone he knew and tell them how talented I am. He was always so proud of me.
I can't even move from this porch right now. The thoughts just keep swarming. I take another hit from my bowl.
My forte instrument is violin. It's beautiful and invigorating. It's what I've done the most with, but the most freeing instrument for me to play is my voice. Singing takes the tight twist out of my throat, the hollow emptiness out of my stomach, and the racing thoughts out of my brain. It helps me release the pain in my heart in a comfortable way, when I continuously close it off to everyone around me.
Except performing? I don't do it. The idea of opening myself up like that to anyone is haunting. This is a problem. Even sitting here by myself I can't hum a tune because somebody inside the building might hear me. I guess I have this insane fear of making a mistake. Ironic since according to my brothers and other relatives, that's all I do. I don't care. I mean, yes I do. I just wish I didn't. A persons interior and exterior are scary different. Nobody ever knows how much I'm truly thinking about. And right now all I'm thinking about is how I wish I wasn't scared to sing him a song once in awhile, and three in the afternoon when I have to look at him lifeless.
I stand up from the steps, and walk inside the apartment. It's too early. The clock says 6:53am, and the two guys are asleep still. I need a nap before I confront today, so I pop another Xanax and take one more big hit from my bowl. Coughing until I gag, I lay flat on the couch. Watching the ceiling fan spin with a continuous click, I drift away to that big black screen, and wonder if this is what it feels like to die.
Crash.
I awake in a panic.
"Sorry, B," Derek says, and grabs a broom for the glass he just dropped on the floor. I roll over and bury my face in the couch and already feel like crying.
"What time is it?" I mumble into the fabric.
"Uh just about noon," he continues sweeping.
I lethargically sit up on the couch, and already feel the lump in my throat forming. I swallow it down with another Xanax.
"What time should we head out today?" He asks, pouring pieces of glass into the trash can.
"We?" My eyes zone out on some shiny shards along the wood floor.
"Well, of course I'm going with you."
I don't say anything. I stand up and walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. Where the cold tile floor becomes a place to rest my head for a few minutes. Nobody knocks or disturbs me either.
Knock knock.
Until now.
"B, we gotta get going soon I assume. You alright?" Derek talks right into the crack of the door, tying his black tie.
He knows better than to ask if I'm alright but it seems to be the only words he can scramble for lately. I don't blame him, I'm at a loss too. Derek didn't know my dad too well, but there were days he drove me to the hospital because I couldn't. And days he held me while I cried. And he came and took me to the emergency room when my boss found me unconscious on the floor a little while after I got that phone call. Needless to say, Derek is someone special to me. But not something I have energy to act on right now. He knows, but he waits patiently.
I slowly stand up from the bathroom floor, and try to rub a tile print from my temple. Opening the door I just walk past Derek and straight to my bottle of Xanax. He watches as I swallow yet another.
"I just need a few minutes," I say, and walk into his bedroom where I have a closet. Throwing on a simple, sleeveless, long black cotton dress, I slip on black combat boots and look at myself in the mirror. Fighting back tears, I shut off the light and get ready to leave.
Derek is driving. I'm staring at all the fields and trees and farms whizzing by. There's not much conversation to have. As we arrive at the funeral home, bumping and rocking over the gravel roads, I suddenly feel sick. Tears are starting their stream down my cheeks but I don't even pay attention to it. As we park I quickly open the car door and lean over to throw up. Nothing. There's not a thing in my stomach, but my body is still trying. I wipe some spit off the corner of the mouth and try to catch my breath. The straining on my stomach got rid of the hollow feeling for a brief minute. A plus of dry heaves, I guess.
Derek rushes to my side of the car and helps me out. I'm basically relying on my grip on his arm to stay up.
"Are you alright?"
"Derek, please stop asking me that." I whisper, choked up.
"I'm sorry, I know, what can I do for you right now? He grips my hand.
"Please just take me to where I can sit down."
People in black suits are talking. People in black dresses are talking. People are crying and talking. One by one family members and friends walk to the front of the room and try and get the crowd to understand their special connection with my father. I stare at the floor, wad of tissues in hand, and people keep resting their hands on my shoulder. I know it should be a sense of comfort and affection but I don't even pay attention to it. I turn my head to my brothers sitting a couple rows ahead, but on the other side of the room and just feel angry. This all happened so fast.
I zone out because I don't want to listen to people talk anymore. But I start to feel dizzy and weak. I can't fight it off anymore, all of these people talking and crying. I stand up and everyone turns and looks at me.
Derek whispers, "B, what are you doing?"
I skim over everyone's eyes looking into mine, and just run out of the room. Derek stands up, but I yell, "No." And exit the room.

Author's Note

Not edited at all, so be easy. I need to finish this when I have more time but let me know what you think so far.

Reviews

[Hans Beckman]

Very interesting to read. It's hard to write a review since this seems to be a very sensitive piece, but overall I think it's well done.