Me And My Father

I was sixteen when it happened. I was dumb, conceited, and wanted attention. I've never had a good relationship with my father, and neither if us really tried for one, but I just wanted the feeling of being loved by someone close to me. Both of my parents were only children, and my mother died in labor with me. I knew my father resented me for it but would never admit it. It was just me and dad, but it wasn't together. I'll never hate my father because he didn't do anything to make me hate him, he didn't do much of anything at all. I stopped caring when he missed my junior high promotion.
   When I was fourteen I stopped calling my dad when I was hanging out with friends after school. He didn't even say anything when I would leave the house late evenings. All he would ask was if I would be home by morning. Halfway through my freshman year my father tried to take his own life. I noticed how little I was really worried. I didn't even cry or rush to the hospital when I heard like a normal daughter would. In his note he didn't even mention me, he only went on about my mother. Her hair. Her eyes. Her smile. After this I went into a depression. I realized that my father wouldn't care if he left his own daughter on her own. My father also realized he wouldn't care if he left his daughter on her own. We grew farther and farther apart until about my junior year.
     When I was fifteen and starting my sophomore year, I met Pen. Pen was a girl in my class who never spoke with anyone except for her dealer and her clients. One day she walked up to me and began to speak. Not wanting to be seen with "the town whore" I agreed to meet her privately after school. She pulled out a small pipe and said the following; "I can see in your eyes you need this. I see the same eyes in the mirror every day." Rather poetic for a tweaker, I thought. After this encounter my life went farther and farther down. I started joining her with strange men, sketchy dealers, and the greatest escape I've ever known. Pen became the closest person to me till the summer before junior year.
    I received a call from her "boyfriend" in a deep fury. Penelope Jones, age 17 had just been arrested under assault with a deadly weapon, possession of crack, cocaine, and suspicion of prostitution. She had attacked her own mother with a baseball bat after she found her stash. Pen had a better home life than me but a much worse mental state. After being evaluated she was diagnosed with schizophrenia and a personality disorder with bipolar tendencies. Her "boyfriend" Cane, didn't care about any of that. Cane cared about the money she was losing him. He was her best girl and client. He threatened me to meet him at the park. With no other choice, I agreed.
      Cane didn't want me for his side business, he didn't even want me as a client. We were alone when we met.
"Hey."
I didn't reply.
"What's wrong with you? You still traumatized about Pen? At least it wasn't your mother who got arrested. At least no one depended on her."
Nothing.
"Don't play the victim. You knew what you were getting into when you meet her, and so did she. This is the life we choose, and we can't change that. You either keep going or you off yourself."
"You're right," I finally croaked out.
"Exactly!"
"The only way to get out of this is to die."
Cane was silent. He came close to me and said:
"But it ain't that easy. You still got the shitty memory of you looking around. You either keep going till you die if age or be seen as a coward by all."
"I'm not hero, do what's the point?"
"I'm not here to decide for you, do what you want."

I went home for the first time in days. My father was asleep on the table with a bottle of cheap vodka and a photo of my mother in front of him. I snuck into his room and pulled out a family heirloom. I placed the small pistol in the center of my forehead. I cocked it, and then... Nothing.
   I heard later that my father used the pistol soon after me, but I never saw him again. Pen, I met a year later, but much cleaner. She had met the fate that many addicts meet, OD. I've been here for many years, at peace. My father had held a memorial for me, but only a few classmates who felt bad attended. For the first time in a long time, I was not happy not sad, but at bliss.