Adam’s Fault
Father died last night. They said they did everything possible, but he still left us. Mother told us, between sobs, that he had gone to a better place. I don’t believe that. He always used to say his favorite time of the day was when he used to drive us to school in the morning. Now we take the school bus. He never wanted us to take the school bus — he can’t be in a better place. It’s Adam’s fault. It’s all his fault. The fact that mother cries all day, everyone looks at me as if I’m an alien, and that father’s chair has been empty for the past week — all his fault. Mother tells me not to say so, but it’s the truth. He is never seen without a tissue clutched in his hand or eyes filled with tears. The other day I told him to his face, so he would now I would never forgive him. Mother say’s it’s impossible to stay angry at someone you love. Adam knows it is his fault.
Adam was always father’s favorite. He had always wanted a son for whatever reasons a man would want. I came along first, followed by him 2 years later. I wish that day hadn’t happened.
I have been asked to repeat the story countless times before officers with bushy eyebrows, in a courtroom surrounded by lawyers scribbling notes, in front of counselors oozing with fake sympathy — too many times for my liking. However, that fateful day of Friday the 7th of September is one that I never want to forget — the last time I saw my father’s smile, heard his laughter, the last time he ruffled my hair — because the day I forgive Adam will be the day I dishonor my father’s living memory. So I decided, what harm could one more recount do, in order to keep the memories with me forever?
I was sitting in the back seat with my brother, both of our seat belts fastened as we sang Queen at the top of our lungs. As we entered the tunnel, the only thing that could be heard in our car was what seemed to us as the joyful, but most probably to many musicians the deafening sounds, of our off tune ensemble. Halfway down the tunnel, a Porsche zoomed past us, drowning out the noise of our melody. Adam, who loves cars, pointed and screamed in excitement at the beautiful car streaking past us. Being father’s favorite, he convinced him to put his foot down on the accelerator.
After that, things become hazy.
As we left the tunnel, the heavens opened in the midst of our car showdown. The next thing I know, the stench of burning rubber filled the car, and we were flipped over, belly up. I was screaming so loud, it should have been impossible. The windshield was covered in blood — father’s blood — filling in the veins of the shattered glass. His head was cocked at an unnatural angle, blood dripping out the side of his mouth. Adam was unconscious, his head having hit the back of the seat. In all his excitement, he had unbuckled his seat belt to stand up and get a better view — a view that had turned out to be one so horrible that it would probably be ingrained in the back of my retinas till the day I die.
I don’t remember what happened after that, because when I awoke, there was a lady standing watch above me, wearing a flowery blouse and a stethoscope around her neck. She smiled at me, and told me I was going to be OK. I didn’t care. All I cared about was Adam. Was my little brother going to be OK? I spent the next week that I lay in that hospital bed praying for him. It never crossed my mind father might not live. He was my hero, an invincible mass of pure goodness — of course he would live. I was so engrossed that I didn’t realize the tears streaking down my mother’s cheeks when she came to see me, nor his absence from my bedside.
The next time I saw my father, his heart was no longer beating. The blood from his face had disappeared, but the thought that it no longer pumped in his veins haunted me as I stared down at him in the casket. Aunty said it was a beautiful ceremony. I disagree — nothing will ever be beautiful again, now that Satan has picked up my sphere of existence, shaken it around and played with it like a new shiny toy, then left the forgotten prices broken scattered in the corner of a room.
I didn’t cry at the ceremony, because father wouldn’t be there to wipe away my tears. He never would be there again.
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Originally published at thewanderingpensite.wordpress.com on November 9, 2015.
