The Novel

Chapter Seven

Today my father died. Or, maybe, yesterday. I can't be sure. And to be honest, I didn't really care. They said it was lung cancer. And yes, you're probably getting my reference. It's the opening line from Albert Camus' The Stranger. Call it a ripoff, it's actually just a homage. I was starting to be a professor at the time when he passed away. I attended the funeral and was the only one there related to him who didn't express anything. Again, I didn't care. My father wasn't really a father to me. He was more of a dictator to a totalitarian regime. He was the Stalin to my Russia, the Hitler to my Germany, the Mussolini to my Italy; he hated me, and I hated him.

My mom would tell me, "Just let go of it. It's in the past now."

No, I wouldn't, and honestly, I don't care, I'd say. The fact that he's dead now simply means that he's just a human shaped lump of meat now. He's as useless as a guy's nipple. Standing there with a group of people in black, all of them emotionally devastated, weeping endlessly, complimenting my father's nonsensical achievements, I felt like an outsider, as if I wasn't even related to anyone in there at all. After my long time of isolation I never got to know anyone in my family circle. I haven't even talked to my mom for a year because I was busy teaching, writing, and doing drugs. Whenever my mom called, I never answered the phone. Whenever my sister sent text messages, I never bothered replying. Waste of time is what I usually thought.

At this point of my life I was writing The Novel, my first masterpiece, which I hadn't shared to anybody just yet. Everybody dies, I've always thought. Whoever it is doesn't matter. He, or she, is dead now. What difference would it make, right? I never cried in funerals, even if the one in the casket was a lover of mine or a son, I wouldn't care less. When Cynthia died, that was how I learned to harden my shell. That's how I learned that death comes for us all. It's only a matter of time before we say yes. My dad's lung cancer got worsened, my mom told me in the chapel during the eulogy of my Aunt Nina. Back then, he just couldn't stop coughing and coughing. Sometimes phlegm, oftentimes blood, was coming out of his mouth.

She said that I should've been there when he was in his deathbed. She said that I should've talked to him for one last time. Too late, I wanted to tell her, and besides, I couldn't afford one final argument with the man who both created and ruined my whole life. My mom continued, saying I should've at least showed my father that I've changed, that I'm a good son now, that I never disappointed him. Bullshit, I thought. Whatever good thing I did, he had always showed his resentment. Our parents, after all, are the primary causes of our despair.

I never believed in a higher power, or a miracle, or an afterlife. These are man-made beliefs constructed for the sake of order, fear, and love. "He's in a good place now," said Aunt Nina in her eulogy. I disagreed, actually. If there is an afterlife, my father would more likely to be suffering in the torments of eternal Hell, rather than enjoying an infinite life of hedonism in Heaven. I took time to take a drink in the near bar.

Drinking a glass of scotch alone, this is the first time I met Skyler, that beautiful journalist whom I've been having a sexual affair with. She approached me, having recognized me from the university where she was majoring in journalism. A few years from this day, she became a tabloid writer focusing on novelists, which featured a great coincidence in our reunion. This was our first flirtation with each other. She offered me to drink with her, she thought I was grieving for my father's death. She clearly had no idea what was going on.

She firmly introduced herself. "Skyler Jameson," she said, extending her hand so I could shake it. And I did. We sat down together in this booth, me listening to her whole life as she just poured down her emotions as if she was the one who lost someone. I wasn't offended at all, in fact, I liked it. I never liked sharing my emotions to people, though I'm not saying I do have any. I just love to listen. I just love knowing people. For me, that's enough.