Savage Black {Urban}

f o û r

The Letters He Wrote_

Savage__

It's been two days since my father's funereal and I've been taking things easily. For the past two days, I've been working. Working to keep busy. I remember it was days I use to hate my job, and wish for my shit to be over. Now I'm wishing it'd never end.

It was about that time again, going to this place called home. I patiently wait for my train, contemplating on which letter I should read first. I've had the journal and the letters in my bag for the past few days. Mainly because I didn't want my mother snooping through my room and finding it. Even though she's almost never home. With her though, you'll never know.

My train finally arrives, the breaks squeaking as it comes to a halt. I stand to my feet, walking towards it as the doors open. The commuters rush out in a crowd, some colliding into others. Once the doorway became empty, I board the train taking my usual seat that sits alone in the corner. I hate when people sit next to me because I love my own personal space. 

The train begins to move along the tracks, the conductor informing the passengers of the next stop. I decide to put my earphones in my ears, playing The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill softly. I don't want to miss my stop, even though I mentally know by stops where my ride ends. When I read though, I do tend to forget where my am.

I look through the options off the three letters, furrowing my brows in confusion to the forth. I look around for it, seeing it on the floor picking it up. I guess that means this is the one I should read first. I open the flap of the envelope with the picture of the Eiffel Tower printed on it.

I retrieve the some what thick stack of paper, unfolding them to reveal the neat handwriting. I look at the dates to see no specific order. It seems as though when he ran out of space in the journal, he continued to write on the computer paper until his last time of writing. I skim through the journal entrees, looking at one that caught my eye. I begin to read it to myself, cutting off the music to concentrate.

June 7, 2008 

It's been three years since I've been diagnosed with Parkinson's and my marriage is slowly falling apart because of it. I myself decided to move downstairs to the guest room, I didn't want to be a bother towards my wife. Sadie tries to help, but I refuse mostly because of my pride. I might have Parkinson's but I can still do things myself. Every now and then I might shake, or can't hold a glass and it happens at the most ransoms of time.

I try my best to hide the fact that I'm losing my mobility, especially around my previous little girl Savage. I feel as though I'd fail her if she seen me battle with something that can kill me any day now. I'd never thought at twenty-eight, I'd be dealing with a disease that would stop my way of functioning. Then I thought this is God's way of punishing me for all the war I've done in the marines, or that maybe it was time to be home with my family. Since I've been in the army, it seems I miss a lot in the two years I'm not here. At least that's how to feel to me.

Since the disease, I've became bitter. Sometimes I forget where I sit things and it frustrates me. I get confused easily or even blankly stare and not notice it until Sadie informs me. 

Today a new symptom evolved. I lost my balance while going to the bathroom this morning. Sadie had hopped up outta bed to help, but I refused it and said some things that should never comes out a man's mouth. I don't mean the outburst, especially the times when I don't realize what I'm doing it.

I saw the hurt in her eyes and it hurt me. It's not her fault that I'm this way and bitter. I'm just use to doing things on my own. I wouldn't be surprised if Sadie left me for another man, she's a good wife and mother who deserves  happiness.