Before The Sunrise

sorry

My father is gone when I get home, probably at the office. Business as usual, I guess. The morning after he breaks me apart, limb by limb.

    I sit down on the couch in our living room, turning the TV to ESPN. They've already started the college pregame shows. Alabama at Georgia today. Two schools that have recruited me. I lay down on my side, mindlessly watching excited college students partying behind the commentators, who are talking about whether or not these quarterbacks will enter the draft, if their backups will transfer, and whether this game will be a preview of the National Championship Game.

    I close my eyes, the sounds of football calming the waters inside me, distilling this one thought.

    I wish he were dead, too.

    Of course the thought makes me feel guilty, but I can't help following it down the rabbit hole. I wouldn't have to bear his rage or absorb the pain he inflicts. I could live my life without broken bones and a shattered heart. I could simply leave him behind. And I could remember him the way I want to remember him, focusing on the ceiling stars instead of the knives and punches.

    I see myself playing in this football game, the quarterback for Georgia. I could go back to playing football because I love it, not because I need it. I'd have teammates to obsess over film with, people to work out with every morning. I wouldn't even have to give a fuck about school. I could just live, trying my best, not having to worry about whether I'll get hurt if my best isn't good enough.

How can I ever be happy while my father is still alive?

An ugly surge of guilt rises in me. What kind of piece of shit am I that I want my own father dead?

Maybe I deserve him.

I lay on my couch, unmoving, for hours, tired and helpless and alone. I stare at the TV screen until my head hurts, and then I close my eyes, trying to ignore the nagging demands from my body. I should eat. I should drink water, at least. But I don't want to move. There's so much pain, and a cold sweat is breaking out all over my body. I think about peeling off my—Bradford's—sweatshirt, but it's too hard.

I fade into a restless sleep. I probably never stayed asleep for more than an hour, gasping awake at various violent images to find the football game still on, only further in. Every time I wake up, I feel worse: hot, sweaty, shivering, dizzy. I don't know what strange pathogen is causing it, but it's too hard to consider it. I stay awake long enough to wish for a glass of water but fall asleep again before I can even think about getting up to get one.

Once or twice, I wake up, and I feel so alone and gross and sad that I think about calling someone, anyone, just to come and sit with me. Maybe even get me a glass of water. I even reach for my phone once, but it's sitting on the coffee table and when I try to grab it, pain pinches into my side, and I have to pull my arm back.

"James?" I don't know how long I've been asleep for this time, but it's the sound of my dad's voice that wakes me up. The light has faded from the living room, leaving it in a grayish haze, darkness broken by a new football game playing on the TV.

A light turns on over my head, stabbing into my eyes. I squeeze them shut as his footsteps loop around the couch, stopping in front of me. "Hey," he whispers gently, his hand rubbing against my arm.

I open my eyes to slits, trying to focus on the blurry shape of my dad's face, only to close them again, feeling dizzy at the way his image swims in front of me.

"Hey, wake up, son. Just for a minute, okay? How long have you been here?"

I try to shrug, but my shoulders barely twitch. I don't bother opening my eyes. If he's going to hit me, I might as well stay half-conscious for it.

He doesn't hit me, though. He brushes his palm across my forehead, wiping away the sweat collected there. "You're burning up," he mutters.

I sense his presence shifting away, and this stupid, childish urgency makes my eyes fly open. "Dad?" I say, stopping him as he walks away.

"Hm?" He turns around, and I see his thick, still-muscular arms stretching the fabric of his light blue button-down shirt, reading glasses hooked in the collar. He doesn't look like a violent person.

"Don't go," I whisper. I clear my throat against the dry grit in my voice. "Please?"

"I'm not going anywhere," he says with a smile. "What, you think I'm just gonna let you melt? I'll be right back."

He walks into the kitchen, and I can see him over the island counter. I watch him move around as if through a fog, and then I close my eyes again.

"Still awake?"

I nod, the anxiety tickling the base of my skull too quiet against the pain that radiates from my eyes to my head to the back of my neck.

"Come on, sit up. Just for a second."

I shake my head, too fatigued to move. I subconsciously brace for retaliation against my defiance, but instead, an arm slides under my back, pushing me upright.

"Ow," I moan, my hand darting to pain searing in my side.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," Dad says. "Drink this. Come on, slow sips."

Ice cold water. I drink it, my hands shaking against the glass. Then he forces me to drink some kind of salty broth. I down some pills, too. I vaguely wonder if I should be accepting pills from him, but honestly, I'd swallow anything if it made me feel less like death.

The couch dips behind me, and moments later, I find myself back on my side, my cheek pressed into the fabric of my dad's slacks as he holds a towel-wrapped bag of ice to the bruise he left on my side.

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to go back to sleep, but I can't. Not here, so close to him. I can't relax when he's this close, even if that stupid childish part of me is glad he's here.

He always saves me.

You wanted him to die, you monster.

"You need to rest more," he says, as if he's not at the root of all my suffering.

I bury my face in my sleeve-covered hands, the light in the room aggravating my headache.

"I miss Mom," I murmur numbly, knowing I'm asking for trouble and hoping he won't do anything now, when I'm already in so much pain.

"I know," he says, shifting the ice against my ribs as he strokes my face with his other hand, his fingers cold. "I miss her, too."

That's not what he said last night.

"I'm sorry," I croak. "I want to—to be good enough—f-for you, and I can't."

"Shhh, don't worry about that right now. I'll take care of everything. I'll keep you safe."

Safe from what? I bend my knees, contracting myself into some kind of defensive position. "I miss Mom," I mumble again, the words soundless on my lips.

"I know," Dad whispers. He takes away the ice, putting his now-free hand against my back, rubbing circles. I shiver.

Suddenly, my head settles on a scratchy pillow.

"Go back to sleep," he says from far away.

I shake my head, even as my consciousness starts to slip again. "Nightmares," I mumble.

"Still?"

The brain signals to open my mouth and respond are not received.

"Good night," Dad says. "Wake me up if you feel worse."

Time passes, and just when I think he might have left, he starts talking.

"I'm sorry that she died, and I didn't," he whispers. "I think you'd be better off if I'd died. I just wanted to be better than my dad. And I'm just like him. She was so good, somehow, despite everything. I don't know how to be like her. I'm sorry."

He presses a kiss to my forehead.

"I love you, son. I'm so sorry."

I think I hear him choke on a sob as he leaves.

i usually don't update on tuesday mornings but this is where i am in life i guess

x. Sky