(KARTER SONG)
Somehow, I had managed to convince myself that I, a liar, destined to rob and hurt people, was destined to hurt girls – people.
Now, although I know I'm not a delinquent, my thoughts are like a typhoon constantly seeking ways to prove that I'm good. And then I stand and I watch myself trying – trying too hard – and I think: Why do you do this? What if you do this so people see the good, because deep down you know – you know you're not good? And that scares me.
Almost the way it scares me that I don't remember the days following – following the thing that my father did.
The memories are like watching a video reel where cameras only focused on the ground, shoes, sounds, and if possible, emotion. I can remember beating on a stranger's front door, but I don't remember how I got inside. Blood – I remember blood, a bathtub, a beautiful frightened face. Then, I can also remember waking up to wafts of grass, and the rushing water of a creek in an unfamiliar neighborhood. Walking for days, resting only in dark alleys, praying someone would find me and shove a gun down my throat, find no money and end it all for me. More than anything, waking up where my father loved to fish, my hand swollen, numb. It sends me into a certain madness, where I crave more of what happened, yet scold myself for what I pray I didn't do. I pray I am nothing like my hero.
The last time I spoke to my grandparents, at my brothers' funeral, they'd let me know that I was a terrible son for not showing face at the memorial, then tearfully told me my father had been cremated, and that his ashes had been left to “live on” at a park. A park? Where children played? The bones and fibers, the spirit of a child killer, a murderer of women, innocent people, at a park? My father …
My dad – my shadow. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his body, for gluttony was a sign of weakness. In his head, gray mixed with pepper, and at any moment's notice, he poured wisdom into those who scowled, and to those who listened earnestly. His arms and hands were made to build bridges and break apart castles. Dark circles granted his eyes permission to roam our home beyond the midnight hours. He possessed a voice that explained things and strained itself only when necessary.
My father was a father to all young men in our neighborhood. Whenever he saw fit, he told us how to hold our fists in a fight, to give firm eye contact to authority, to lie to liars, listen to girls, to give our earnings to charity. I'd stared up at him in awe as fatherless boys followed my dad like a pack of wolves, loading up our van, gearing up to go to his favorite fishing spot. Now, I look at his picture with lonely pangs. I get them morning, noon, and at night. It starts with chills, ends with fever, and everything in between is a grating pain in my soul.
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