After a long hiatus and mild depression, I have finally got back into writing again. Although I've long since abandoned the novel that I said I was going to finish, I've instead decided to work on short stories help keep myself occupied. Although it's clumsy, I've written a story this afternoon, and I would like it if I could get some feedback on it, since it's been awhile since I've written anything. And for that matter, you can feel free to post your own writings, and I will critique them as well. Any help is appreciated. :icon_bigg Also, it's about 5 pages long. Spoiler My son died last week. They told me it was a car crash. He took his friend’s father’s car out for a joy ride and he turned the wrong direction on a one way. He was hit by a man going over 20 miles over the speed limit. The other kids in the car were pretty bashed up, but all of them survived. Not one mark was left on my boy, yet he was the only one who didn’t make it. If you were to ask me how old he was, I couldn’t tell you. I believe that he was about fifteen or sixteen, but it’s so hard to keep track of when we stopped speaking. All I know is that even under the layers of garish makeup they slathered on him for the funeral, I could still see the acne dotted all over his face. It’s tragic that he died so young, but it’s even more tragic that he died doing something stupid. Now let me preface this by saying that I did not want kids. When I met my ex-wife, I was very clear about my stance on having children, and I thought that she agreed. But when that test came up positive, she decided that she could not give up that baby, and I had no choice but to oblige. The strange part was that at first, I wasn’t even slightly afraid. Throughout the pregnancy, the birth, even his infancy; I did not feel any fear. It wasn’t until he was able to talk that cold feet finally hit. Now I was an excellent provider. There was always a meal on the table, every birthday was a success, and my family never wondered where they would be living. Even after the divorce, I was the steadiest source of income. My family still lived comfortably even when I wasn’t there. That being said, I was an awful father. For the six years that I lived with him, we did nothing together. We didn’t speak, we didn’t play, and he hardly knew my name. When I walked out on him, I doubt he even noticed. Some odd years later I talked to my ex-wife about the divorce and about how she felt about me leaving, and she admitted that neither of them were surprised. Then again, I never had a strong sense of family. You see, my mother died shortly after I was born. It was her birthday, and she had never had a sip of alcohol her whole life, yet she ended up dying of alcohol poisoning. Her last drink was the one that killed her, though my dad always warned me that it started with the first. It was quite a sad blow to my father. My parents weren’t rich by any means, but they lived comfortably. Both of them brought home a paycheck and they didn’t have worries any bigger than the average family. That is, until the death of my mother. That hit my family financially very hard. He had to struggle to make ends meet by taking many odd jobs along with his regular work. I was eight years old when my dad decided to rent out a room to someone. The room was taken by a man who had recently fallen short on his luck. His name was Dennis. Dennis was an awesome addition to our small family, and I accepted his presence instantly. Both he and my father were great role models for what hardworking, optimistic, and kind men should be. I didn’t really question why he stayed with us after he found a job and no longer needed the room. Nor did I ask my dad why he didn’t kick Dennis out after my father got promoted and no longer needed the money. It was just a joy having him there. Things didn’t go sour until I was twelve years old and I began to hear noises coming from my father’s room. It felt like as soon as I found out, so did the rest of the town. Whispering suddenly became snide comments and small time bullying became full out assaults. I grew up in a small town in Georgia, so it’s not as though there were any secrets, nor was any kind of odd sexuality tolerated. Maybe it was happening the whole time, but it just seemed sudden. At sixteen years old, I actually lost my finger to a couple of kids. They held me down and sliced it right off with a pocket knife. They were convicted and sent to jail, but that incident never really left me and it still pains me to see my empty left hand. I never resented my father or Dennis. However, that doesn’t mean things were all good. On one hand, I loved them. There was nothing wrong with their relationship in my eyes. They were still the two greatest dads I could have asked for. But God did I fear them. I feared loving them. Being around them made people prey on me like a wounded animal. Whenever their love noises would echo throughout the house, I feared everyone could hear. I would weep and try to cover their sounds from the world. Maybe I thought that if I didn’t hear them, nobody else would. This brought on a lot of guilt and repression. A year after the finger incident, the two of them actually sat me down and asked if they should split up. The fact that I was causing so much unhappiness to them sent me into a depression. I acted like I didn’t know what they were talking about, and suggested that we move instead. They obliged to it, and we packed up and moved to Chicago where we lived in poverty for a few months until their jobs were replaced. After the move, I didn’t talk to them anymore and they ended up splitting anyways two years later. My dad told me that it wasn’t my fault, but I know that he was lying. The last time I saw either of them was at my wedding eighteen years ago. They didn’t even know they had a grand son. All that held in fear began to come out when my son began saying his first sentences. It started out very innocently. He said “mama” before “dada”. He said “flower” before “ball”. He asked for the pink cup over the blue cup. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but my finger had only been cut off about five years ago. The incident was still somewhat fresh in my mind, and all the awful repression began rushing back. All that fear I had for my fathers suddenly became directed towards my toddler son. I know that it was irrational and didn’t make sense, but it was something I couldn’t have avoided because I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, so I just shut the boy out. Perhaps I was afraid of society treating him badly. Maybe I didn’t want him to go through the terrors that I did in my teen years. It could even be that maybe, just maybe I didn’t want him to grow up in a world where he was told he was imperfect, because he was perfect in my eyes. That, ladies and gentlemen, is bull. I loved my son. I wanted him to be happy. But I cared way more about myself then I ever did about him. We weren’t too far apart. I would guess that we lived about 5 hours apart. My ex-wife constantly guilted me into visiting him. My denial made it easy at first. I would see him at all the major holidays. At Christmas, he got multiple gifts. On his birthday, I always brought the hot dogs. Thanksgiving dinner was always cooked to perfection by his mother, and her family made it a point not to be rude despite their feelings towards me. We would go on various outings during summer vacation, and I would pay for any ride. We never talked though. Just watching him was too much for me, and I never elaborated my feelings to anyone. While I was married my wife would ask me why I was so closed off, and I would always respond by leaving. Nobody knew why I was just a roommate in my own house. They just knew that you didn’t speak to me. As the years went on, my ex asked less of me. One year, I moved a little farther so we cut Thanksgiving out. Then we had to cut his birthday because it was too close to our summer outing. The summer outing had to go because my truck didn’t work too well in the heat. The other outing got cut because my son got sick, and we just never revisited the idea. Finally, we cut Christmas. When we cut Christmas, I didn’t even need to make up an excuse. I was dead to them. The last time I saw him was on his birthday, which I only happened upon due to me already being in town. His hair was too long, and his jeans were too tight. The only thing I said to him the whole night was, “happy birthday”. I didn’t even say good bye. When I look back, I’ve realized how absolutely stupid I was. He may not have been the burliest kid around, but he wasn’t flamboyantly homosexual either. My son wasn’t really interested in sports, but big deal! My father and Dennis always played baseball with me. He didn’t seem interested in girls, but honestly, what six year old is? I didn’t even have problems with homosexuality as a whole. It only struck me when someone I knew was involved. Homophobic? Perhaps. It’s hard to deny that I didn’t completely approve of the lifestyle. But hateful? Absolutely not. Even with all the problems it had caused me, I never hated my father, and I never hated Dennis. My son though, I’m not sure. I didn’t hate him, and I loved him because he was my child. But as I sit here in my black suit and tie, I wonder if it’s possible to love someone you never spoke to. When I first got the call, I was so shocked that my emotions almost seemed natural. There was a sense of cold emptiness in my heart so deep, that it was almost as if I felt nothing at all. It was something much stronger than indifference that can only be found in a man so distraught that any emotion seems undignified and unfitting. The only thing I remember was me saying I would make it to the funeral. This feeling prevailed for the entire drive to his funeral. I didn’t cry, and I didn’t react. I just let the emptiness fill me. For this entire week, I have lived in this feeling. His funeral was this afternoon, and it was at that moment that everything changed. It was in his high school auditorium, and all 200/500 seats were filled. Many of which were filled with family members that not even I knew he had. Some people were crying, some had no expressions on their faces; there were even some who were laughing. Each person seemed to be there with some kind of purpose and connection. And yet there I was. I was sitting in the back of a school auditorium next to a bunch of teenage girls I had never seen and never will see. Nobody asked who I was, and nobody seemed to notice me. It was when I saw his body that I realized that I truly didn’t belong at his funeral. Out of all 200 people in that open dusty room, I knew that I was the outsider. From the baby cousins who weren’t even aware of their own thumbs, to his classmates who only came as a sign of respect, I was still the stranger. Nobody even had enough concern to scoff at me. Within that sea of faces, my body was absolutely nothing. One of the girls who went up to speak didn’t even know his last name, yet she knew more about my boy then I did. When they showed a slideshow after the speakers, it became apparent how much of his life I had missed. Among the hundreds of pictures, I was in one. The worst part was that I wasn’t even participating. It was a picture of him at four years old at Christmas time. While he was unwrapping some kind of toy and flashing a big, toothy smile, I sat in the background with a book and a bored expression. I didn’t know that my son played the cello. I didn’t know that his best friend was named Harvey. I didn’t even know that he hated mashed potatoes. His face was as familiar as the girls crying next to me. What disturbs me the most though is that this doesn’t really bother me. I’m not sad. Guilty? Yes. Not sad though. I don’t seem to miss him at all. It feels awful that maybe if I had been more present, maybe he would have made better decisions. If he had a father around, I could have punished him for taking a joy ride. He might have been a more well-rounded kid and I could have stopped him from making his fatal mistake. I feel bad for not preventing his death, but I don’t miss him. It’s unfortunate that this young man got taken in the prime of his life in an accident that could have been avoided, but I’m not sad that it’s him. The coldness that has been following that phone call is not the feelings of a parent losing their only child. It’s the feeling of empathy. I feel bad for my son, but I don’t feel bad for myself. Frankly, I don’t think I’ve earned the right to feel bad. When my boy was laying in the coffin with that blank look, my face wasn’t reflected back. Maybe if he had died when he was a child I would have cared, but he isn’t part of me anymore. He got to live his full life. He had a mother, friends, and a ton of memories. There are hundreds of photographs of him just being a kid, ranging from him crying to shots of pure joy. To me, he is only that one snap shot, and there’s no doubt in my mind that the feeling was mutual. I love my son, but I never cared about him. If I did, when I suspected he was a homosexual, I would have done something. Whether than meant accepting him with open arms, or kicking him out, I would have felt something. I didn’t though. I did what was best for me. I hate myself for this. I want to care about him. I love my son so much, but he just doesn’t matter that much in the scheme of things. I have no idea if he’s gay, or straight, or even a boy. It doesn’t matter to me. If I found out he was straight the whole time, I wouldn’t feel any worse. He’s nothing more than a distant memory, and I know, without a doubt in my mind, I will be totally happy without him. Tonight, I’m going to crack open a beer and turn on the TV. I’m going to watch some sitcoms and drink beer after beer. As the night rolls on, maybe my emotions will awaken. The guilt and self-hatred will begin to consume me. I will cry at the thought of how many tears I didn’t shed over his body. Who knows, maybe within the black lucidity of the alcohol, I will find out that deep down inside, my coldness only masked the pain. In an ideal world, it would turn out that I truly loved my son and that I really was just like my two amazing fathers. However, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that nothing in life will ever be ideal. Tomorrow, I’m going to wake up with a mild hangover. I’ll check out of my motel room and hop into my truck and hit to road so that I can make it to work on Monday. The radio is going to play slow rock songs as I try not to fall asleep on the empty, desolate road home. Even with my son buried beneath the earth, and all the tears shed by those who can never replace him, I won’t think about him for more than a split second. If there’s one thing I learned from my mother during her short life, it’s that my life will continue no matter what. It doesn’t matter who it is, or how they died. I will always be content that my life goes on.
