A SECOND GENERATION

A DEMON DRAGON ROARS

Pippin Sodbury had known the very worst of life when his father, always a kindly man, started to forget who he was when he came home from school. And dad was on his own. Mum had failed to thrive when she lost the baby she was carrying, and both she and the baby were resting in the cemetery

And now dad was wondering who he was, the man who had been his sole parent for ever, And that was hard to cope with when he was in his teens because hadn’t his father always known him? “Pippin, my boy” he could hear him say in the vault of his mind that recalled treasured moments from the past, “Pippin, my boy, what would you like for your birthday? A small present, maybe, to mark the way another year has trundled past without so much as touching you…?”

That was how, dad had spoken, always a bit pompous, which made other folk tease him, but always honest. And here the honesty was in the use of the term small present. Money was never in plentiful supply back in those days when little economies were always being called for, and birthday presents could never be extravagant. Yet dad managed to take them on holiday most years, to the coast usually, to a caravan site because he had a mate who let him use his caravan at the end of the summer season.

Then life had started unravelling.

Dad had started forgetting things, little things to start with, coming out with such gems as why have I come to the kitchen when he’d gone to see if the kettle was boiling. They were what he had called daddisms, and to start with they made him smile. Until the time came when they didn’t make him smile at all, but rather, made him cry.

The summer holidays came to an end about then too. The man who couldn’t remember why he’d gone into the kitchen could surely never remember to borrow his mate’s caravan and find them transport for the coast?

It had all come to a tragic standstill when his caravan-owning friend called round and asked him why he hadn’t gone this year, the acravam was standing empoty and he’d prefer it if there was someone inside, enjoying a break.

“Haven’t gone where?” asked dad, puzzled, frowning, screwing his brow up in concentration.

And then the world had tumbled into discrete pieces when he was reminded of a holiday he’d asked that friend if he could take, and yet hadn’t gone. It was a pivotal disaster and a signal that all was not well with dthe precious man

Pippin often found tears welling up when he remembered those months, or was it years? It might have been.

Then dad had died. It was as simple as answering the door to the council workman because he wanted access to the rear of the house, and dad had nodded his head as if he understood, had said he’d do it but he understood very little in those last days, or on that last of all days. Because instead of going outside to unlock the garden gate he had climbed upstairs to unlock the landing window.

And lost his footing somehow, and collapsed down the stairs. An ambulance was called for but he was as good as dead. It was his head, where he’d banged it on step after step and then the stone floor at the bottom of the stairs.

Pippin had rushed to the hospital to see his dad but he never had a chance to say goodbye. Instead, he heard the howling manic screams the dear man made as he was trundled to a ward, and then after a while a nurse had come to him and told him how sorry she was, but his dad had passed away, unable to combat his injuries which were quite serious.

“C-can I see him?” asked the boy.

“I wouldn’t advise it, dear. Instead, try to remember him how he was. But if you insist…?

“I’ll do what you suggest then,” he had said, compliant as ever, “I only wanted to say goodbye and.. and I loved him.”

And that had been that.

And now those days were part of a long-ago past, and one dragon kept rising into his mind, a cruel image of him walking in from school and,

“who are you and why are you in my house?” dad had asked as if he was challenging a thief.

It was a dragon that had called on him time after time over the past sixty years. Would he, sharing his father’s blood and DNA, suffer the same decline, forget the kids and the grand kids, fall down the stairs and, dared he think it, die?

But the kids had long since found their own lives, had left home, and only occasionally did they call on him because he had grand children that needed looking after. He understood wthat He had never been what might be called a friendly father. He’d done his best, had driven Emily away though he had loved her more than words can tell, but she could only take so much from his dragon. And he knew that. It had been his own silly fault, but life is so short, a mantra constantly playing inside his mind, his father’s life had been so short, stolen from him by a staircase and gravity, then becoming his dragon of fire and memory

The door. Yes. That’s the door, the back door, and it’s opening… what the devil?

He saw the figure standing there, smiling at him.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

And his visitor’s face had fallen.

“It’s me, dad,” it said.

And that moment Pippin know what he had to do before the staircase did it for him. He had a stash of pills, quite a load of them in the bathroom cabinet, and they would see to things, would stop the nightmare recurring, would slaughter the dragon in his brain.

“Just a minute Jack, it is Jack isn’t it? I love you, and never forget that, never ever...”

© Peter Rogerson 02.02.24

Author's Note

Mr own dragon roars now and again...