This was me at 16

Part 3

He answers but says nothing. The caller speaks before he could. I try to eavesdrop but fail at the fact that the caller's voice is that of a quiet tone. Still I stay in the room as my curiosity overwhelms me. My father suddenly hangs up the phone but he does not take it away from his ear. I keep myself silent, thinking that he forgot that I was even there. For a quick moment I observe him again. His posture is wickedly obscure. His overalls are stained and torn at every limb. His eyes are still the most mystical. They've aged with me but seem much older than I am. Lifeless at first gaze but all the same they are just tired. As I secretly look at my mother's husband I notice that these eyes have turned red. He is crying. My breath freezes. He takes a step back, limping in his pain. His back is towards me. His hand catches the corner of a chair but the misery cripples his grip. He stumbles to the ground like a fallen landmark that is forced to be taken down by the same people that put it up, due to irrelevance. At this motion his phone falls beside him.

I am at the same time petrified and in awe at this sight. I've never seen him like this. My parental beacon crashing down a lifeless slope. He is defeated in all his counterfeit masculinity. I feel the obligation to interfere. '' What's the matter?'' , I softly say into the broken void. I do not expect an answer but is surprised by one. ''My father...''. He does not need to say the word 'dead' for me to realize that it is the cause for his emotional outburst. I've only been acquainted with death a few times before as a child. Nothing too personal or aching. I've always been a master with words but this time I have none. I possess not a single phrase. My heart breaks while his bleeds. I feel powerless

I choose my steps towards him. The floor creaks once again, this time sounding like thunder at the feet of peace. Still I walk. I kneel next to him. Next to the pile of severed man. I place my hand on his as a gesture of comfort, knowing that he will reject it. He suddenly looks up at me. Here it is. His agonizing gaze directly into my eyes, like a wounded animal seeking reason for his hurt. I mentally shatter in front of him. Here he is. The man who taught me to feel nothing, feeling everything. My hand starts to shake . He realizes this and pulls away from me as in disgust. He lifts his body and marches out the front door like the outside world has an emergency waiting on him. I am left there emotionally paralyzed in time, wanting to pick myself up but not finding the pieces to do so. Scarred by moments passed. A moment with my father that I will never get to take back. I don't want to. This is a moment that first breaks me before it builds me. As a human I allow myself to mourn but as his child I fight back each stinging tear. A battlefield I am never prepared for and a battle I always lose. This inherited way of thinking turns my insides. The floor still has me.

The child residing in my bones wants to run up to him. Grasp his fragmented heart holding all the splinters in between my fingertips and weave them back together with all my willpower but knowing that I will not be welcomed as this healer I choose to retract. I get up and walk to my awaiting bed. I sink into my torment, falling asleep. This was my at sixteen.