Bury Me(62)

“Once again, you’re not making any sense. Sober up and then maybe we can talk about all the secrets and lies I’ve started to remember that all revolve around you,” I inform him, my teeth clenched so tightly together I just might crack one in half.

“I haven’t had a drink since this morning,” he replies sadly. “I couldn’t take another drink after I watched Nolan drive you away in my car. I knew you had been in my office, and I knew you opened the safe. The file was put in backward and the papers inside were in the wrong order. I knew where you were going, and I knew it was only a matter of time before it would all come back to you.”

I look into his eyes and realize he’s telling the truth. Aside from his steady clear voice, when he’s not sniffling and choking back sobs, his eyes are no longer bloodshot. They’re bright and filled with unshed tears, but they’re clear and no longer glazed over with alcohol and grief.

“Your mother knew right away. I could see it in her eyes every time she looked at you, but she still went along with it because I asked her to. She always did whatever I asked because she knew everything that happened was because of her mistake. She would have done anything to take back that one lapse in judgment, that one moment of desire that she couldn’t fight, but you can’t reverse time and fix your mistakes. You just have to learn how to live with them.”

I scoff, shaking my head at him, wanting to pick up the board he dropped and smack him over the head so he’ll start to make sense.

“Obviously she never learned how to live with her mistakes since she put a gun in her mouth and took the easy way out,” I remind him.

He sobs even louder, the sound making me wince and want to cover my ears.

“I know you’ve started to remember the things I hoped would never come back to you. I knew it that day in your bedroom when you told me about secrets being hidden,” he tells me, taking a deep breath to try and stop the quivering in his voice. “I wanted to hate you so much… You stole everything from me and still, I can’t hate you. You couldn’t help what you did. We tried to fix you, but we only made it worse.”

An irritated laugh huffs out of my mouth and I shake my head at him in disgust. “Yes, I’ve started remembering things. Like Dr. Thomas and the things he did to me. Do you have any idea what I had to live through with him? And you gave me to him. I was five years old and you tossed me away to a sick, twisted man who got a smile on his face every time he hooked me up to the electric shock machines, stuck needles in my arms to pump me full of drugs and every other horrible thing you could possibly imagine. You wanted to hate me? I think I’m the one who deserves to feel all of the hate in the world for you and my mother.”

I toss the flashlight to the side since I no longer need it, realizing that as much as I would like to bash his head in with it, I’m still waiting for him to give me some information that I actually haven’t already figured out on my own.

“You still don’t remember everything, do you? Please God, remember. Don’t make me relive it all over again. It’s too much. Oh God, it hurts too much!” he wails pathetically.

“Don’t you DARE talk to me about pain!” I shout, cutting off his mournful cries. “I spent the last thirteen years of my life, day in and day out, subjected to more pain than you’ll ever know.”

“Oh God! Oh God, what did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

“I gave you what you deserve. I’m letting you know what real pain feels like. How do you like it? Does it make you want to die? Or does it make you want to kill, like it does me?”

I ignore the pounding in my skull, forcing the headache away because I don’t have time for it. After weeks of being confused and trying to ignore who I really was just to make my parents happy, living through nightmares and memories I refused to believe because they didn’t match the lies they told me, and learning things about my life that filled me with revulsion… knowing that it was because of them that I didn’t have any of those happy childhood memories I deserved, I want to enjoy every minute of my father finally being sober enough to listen to the things I want to say to him.

“It must be nice to have all of these happy memories and pictures to go along with them. I haven’t had a birthday party since I was five. Do you remember that party? Probably not. I remember it, though, even if there aren’t any photos. I guess what happened down at the lake kind of tainted the whole thing.”

My hand flies up to my head, and I press my fingers as hard as I can against my forehead to stop the pain.