His Dark Words

18 | Undone

WARNING: the following chapter discusses death and some sensitive topics that may be triggering for some. There is no explicit detail but if you or anyone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts please get yourself or them help immediately. 

He wasn't happy. That was the defining feature of my dad's life for as long as I can remember... He simply was not happy... I don't know why it was that night in particular that he decided to do it. I don't know what he was thinking. The staff at the hospital told my mom that there was evidence that he had been planning it for a long time. I don't know how to feel about that. I'm not sure if I can feel anything right now.

My mom can't talk about it without crying. She suffered alone for hours before I called. She wanted to prolong the time when I could be just a normal teenager. I didn't tell her what happened with Austin. I can't help but think that, if I'd never found out it was Austin who wrote the book, would I have continued making that film for my Dad? If I had managed to make it perfect, then would it have made a difference? Maybe he would've felt that his life meant something. Maybe he would've found joy in those patchwork memories... 

There are so many questions I have. So many things I want to say to him that will never be said. There will forever be a him-shaped hole in my life that can never be filled. And right now, it feels like all my joy, all my potential for joy is being sucked right out of that hole, faster than I can claw it back inside of myself.

All I keep thinking about is those stupid home movies. Of any way I could've made a difference, fixed it all, saved him. But my selfish little heart wanted to be normal; to go to movies and dances and parties. I pushed him back to that place I used to keep him in my mind... I let him slip through my fingers.

I don't have a black dress. It never seemed important before. I'm wearing a black skirt and one of my school shirts underneath my mom's black coat. All through the slow, solemn ceremony I think about Queen Victoria of England and how she wore black for the rest of her life after her husband Albert died. She had a cast made of his hand so she could touch his fingers and feel as if he were still with her in some way.

It's been years since I held my father's hand. 

I feel robbed of his touch and so much else. 

My grandparents came along with an odd mix of family that I've never properly met. My grandma made all of these big bouquets of yellow flowers. They make me think of all the rooms that used to be yellow in our house before they all got painted over one after the other, except for mine. The flowers are every kind that she could find. None of them go together but they're all yellow. The bunches are bound together with this thick twine that has shells strung through in small clusters. I realize they're his shells: the ones he picked up off of the beaches of his childhood. Shells are so pretty... So very lovely. Until you realize they're the body parts of sea creatures. Cast off limbs, disconnected and carried away by the tide...

I haven't been to many funerals. Not one in fact. Whenever they show them in movies or on TV people are always talking about how wonderful the dead guy is and how much he'll be missed. But what are you supposed to say when the dead guy killed himself? How can you find any words of comfort for the people he chose to leave behind?

So, no one says anything much. Even though I'm desperate, just completely, utterly desperate for them to talk about him. To tell me about him. Like maybe I can get to know him through them? I want to know him as something other than that last time I saw him. I want to know everything about him. I want to hold his hand.

"He left some lovely letters..." My grandma says, in front of the small crowd.

I've read them, over and over. They're apologies. I couldn't find any piece of him in any of them. They feel anonymous. For a moment I think she's going to read them out loud, but she just trembles there before us all and says in a very small voice that no parent should out live their child. She shuffles off the raised platform, defeated.

Vanessa slips her warm fingers around my fist. I look over at her as if a pane of glass separates us; a seemingly impenetrable bubble of grief that has blown up around me and she has somehow stuck her hand right through it to touch me. Her parents are there, and I see the pity in their eyes. Alex is standing with them, a little off to the side. His head is bowed. He doesn't look at me. His hair is over his eyes, but I can see tears streaking down his cheeks like little rivers, running together to form a flood. I'm surprised to see Derrick beside him too, but there's no Austin. 

Why would there be? Considering how we left things... How awful it all is.

The service is suddenly over. 

How can a life be marked in so brief a form? He was a father, a husband. He taught History, studied Poetry. My mom had a poem he loved by Walt Whitman, she tried to read it, but she was crying too hard, so it goes unread. 

Left, like so much in my dad's life: un-done.

They all come back to the house even though I wish they'd just leave. My grandma wants to just hold me and hug me, and I feel so suffocated by it all. My grandpa peels her hands away and places them around his own shoulders. His gaze is steady, but far, far off: looking out into oblivion. People are standing around, barely talking and eating these sad little triangular cut sandwiches.

I stand up, every limb feels heavy like my bones are made of lead. I walk over to the stairs my brain on autopilot. I start to climb.

"Harlow?" Vanessa's voice sounds like a whisper in an empty swimming pool. "Where are you going?"

"I think I'm just gonna go sleep."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

I shake my head. "I'm just so tired."

She comes up behind me anyway and takes my arm, as if I'm not capable of walking up to my room by myself. Derrick is hovering behind her with this odd look in his dark eyes. I never realized how very square his head is before that moment looking at him. I guess people look perfectly beautiful until you've seen their face over and over and notice all their flaws and imperfections one by one. They escort me to my room like prison guards. What are they afraid of? That I'll make a break for it?

I slip off my shoes and sit on my bed, just looking up at them. "Are you going to watch me undress?"

Vanessa jumps. "No! Of course not!" She takes Derrick's arm and goes to leave but he stays put.

"It was me... That called you. I feel really bad about it. Especially after what happened..."

"Called me?" I blink, no idea what he's talking about.

"I knew Austin still had something going on with Macie. They were playing this sick game to make each other jealous and push each other's buttons. You seem like a nice girl and you're Vanessa's friend. I didn't want to see you get hurt but... He's my friend too and..." He looks so uncomfortable: uncomfortable and square.

"I don't care." I say in a dull voice.

Vanessa gently tugs his hand and he quietly follows her out of the room. 

I lie down on my side, not bothering to undress after all.

I don't care.

I don't care about anything anymore...

The next morning is like every other morning since it happened; I wake up thinking it was all a dream... And then I really wake up.