words kill

“Don’t you know I’m dying? Do you even care?” His words were cold and hurtful but filled with a lot of truth. For the first time I think he admitted to himself that his disease would kill him, that he would not be getting better, but he did it to try to hurt me. Unmoved by his cold words and unwilling to be upstaged in this battle of hate and wit, I fired back with cold and hurtful words that would make the devil himself bow before me. With confidence and hate I fired back.

“Yea I know. You have been dying for five years now.” I saw the hurt and shock in his eyes as they began to beam with hatred. His illness had zapped him of his strength and he was unable to hold back his emotions and express his anger at the same time. I turned feeling victorious, but not yet finished. I mumbled, loud enough for him to hear, “stop talking about it and do it, because I’m tired of the empty promises.” I realize that was a bit too much, a little uncalled for, but I needed him to feel all the pain I felt growing up. Wanted him to feel what it felt like to have someone that is supposed to be supportive tare you down. I didn’t regret my words as I walked out. I could hear his tears rolling down his cheek louder than I heard his shout for me to leave HIS house. It was odd, even though my back was turned to him, I knew he was crying. And from these tears I felt satisfied. I had finally made him feel like I had so many nights growing up.

No bad deed goes unpunished. I got confirmation of my victory sooner than I thought. Apparently my mother had called the house shortly after I left and my father was still upset by our exchange. She called me disappointed by my words and told me there was no excuse for what I had said. Normally, any other day, this speech would have made me feel terrible, made me want to turn back the hands of time and take back whatever it was I had done. Not this time. Remoras did not live here. I had won and no one was going to make me feel bad about it. The beast had met his match, bit off more than he could chew. I didn’t respond to my mother, so she hung up. I went to work as if nothing had happened.

A week went by and we didn’t say anything to one another. I was not going to apologize and admit I had done something wrong. The day is clear to me as if it was yesterday when we finally spoke. It was March 20, 2006, my mother’s birthday. This day was her day and it was like we both agreed to put aside our differences for her. “Doesn’t your mother look beautiful?” He asked me but it felt more like he was proclaiming it to everyone that could hear his frail voice. My mother had just returned from shopping and getting her hair done, my father’s gift to her. She only wanted to see him happy for her birthday and he wanted to see her do the things she had been missing since he got sick. “She does,” I stated as I continued passed their room. My father, mother, brother and I left together to drop my father off to dialysis. I didn’t say much on the long drive (15 minute drive, but when you are in a car with someone you really don’t want to speak to it feels like an eternity) to the dialysis center, just enjoyed the ride and chatted with friends online with my sidekick. Once we got to the dialysis center something odd happened.

I tried to help my father out of the car, but of course I didn’t do it right, so I got to hear the familiar tone in his voice. “God dammitt are you trying to hurt me on purpose,” he yelled. I smiled, not because I was trying to hurt him, but because I wasn’t going to let him get to me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” I was stunned. He apologized for an outburst right after he lashed out. What happened next shocked everyone including myself.

“I know, it’s ok,” the words flew out of my mouth without any thought on my part. I couldn’t believe I just let him get away with that. This was the first time since I was 19 years old I had expected that he couldn’t help what came out of his mouth. Once he got inside and seated at his station we discussed what was going on the news. This was the last conversation I had with my father. He died that night while at dialysis’.

I guess the old man got the last laugh and followed through. Maybe I should have felt bad about our conversation the week prior, but I didn’t. I felt no guilt at what I had said, the harsh unforgiven words that were uttered from my mouth did not cause me pain when my father had passed away.

I can’t tell you why I wrote this and what led me to post this, but it felt good getting it out and almost bought me to tears. My father is gone, reminders of him are all around me and I remember him just as he was when he was alive. Unlike others who hold onto just the goods, I held on to all the memories of my father.