Love punch
Maybe we should talk about your father.
Maybe we should put something under the microscope, look at something in greater detail; pick something apart and the put it back together again. Maybe we should analyse what something meant in relation to that other thing, what it was that inspired a particular course of events to take place.
Maybe we should do all of this, just so that you won’t have to think about how you know that one day those that don’t already despise you will wake up and look at you and think…about why they’re wasting their time. And you don’t need the general population to like you, you don’t need people to care about you and pet your hair and think of you as someone they’d like to see again tomorrow, but…you need a few. And you’re not quite sure you wouldn’t go insane if they left you. Because you fucking hate answering questions about your father, but that seems to be all anyone has ever wanted from you. Explanations. Something tangible to show them, concrete proof that your father was born that way. That his actions during the later part of his life spoke for the whole of his personality.
You are your father’s narrator. You are the novel of your father’s life, and you are supposed to be able to give all the correct information.
Well, ok. In your head, this is what you say; when the sun is shining, and the birds are dying:
I love you. Because of a few things (let them remain quiet here), and despite everything.
You love your father. And you think that’s the one thing you will never ever tell anyone.
Father made my history.
He fought for what he thought would set us somehow free
They taught me what to say in school
I learned it all by heart but now that's torn in two.
People speak of evil like it’s a simple concept. It’s stupid and ignorant, and if it’s two things I hate it’s stupid and ignorant people, mainly because I used to be one of them. But I don’t waste time ranting about it anymore. Maybe it’s of some use to hold on to some of those fundamental beliefs no matter how half-assed they are, because maybe they’ll save you some time somewhere down the line. Me, I can’t think like that. Not when it’s me being potentially evil. I have to…maybe I am. Shit.
Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.
”Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Stop arsing around.”
“I never thought I’d feel dread the day you finally shut the fuck up.”
“Well. This is new.”
“You’re creeping me out.”
”Is this some sort of trick?”
It was only 3 days. Nothing earth-shattering. More like insulting and annoying and a complete fiasco.
Not enough?
You know those things you do because you believe you’re making a statement? Well, then, as it turns out, no one reacts the goddamn way you want them to. And who’s left looking like an idiot?
Not enough.
He still believed in the theory of it. They would be so much happier if they just stopped trying. No, refocused their attempts on something more worthwhile. Like moving on. All that ever came out was gibberish, cutting through steel and throats and creating awkward silences where there should have been nothing to start with. Did none of these morons believe in denial?
Not enough.
It was night time. Raining, sheets of it coming down hard on the garden path. The weeds growing in the cracks of the concrete were looking particularly morose, and he strongly suspected the black blur in the bushes was his cat. It just gave off this vibe; sulking space. There was a haphazardly thrown garden shovel on the grass next to a lawn chair with only one leg, and that was about it. Some garden.
The momentum with which the droplets hit the ground forced them upwards again, and for a moment he believed that if he reached out and touched the rain it’d cut right through his finger. Just like the tears on his mother’s face.
Ah, it was freaking cold out here. What was he doing, shuffling about on his front porch? Sometimes he made himself sick, really, he did.
Not enough.
Timeout. Time to sleep. Time to turn off all the lights. Time to lock the door. Time to pretend otherwise for a while. Time to isolate yourself again. Time to shut up. Time to stop talking.
What’s the point in talking if that’s not enough?