Being Me By Kim Jok Woseungchangkong

Part 8.... The Final Part

  Happy birthday, Cole. I just wanted to let you know that I still remembered... yeah. Sorry, little guy. I'll be straight with you - I was a piece of shit. Both as a father, and a friend. I never treated you right, Cole. I hated you so much, my blood would boil being in the same room as you. Your mother trusted me to raise you when she died, and I failed so miserably. I always blamed you for her death. She would always come home late after working some insane amount of extra hours to get money to pay for your education. She kept getting into shadier and shadier stuff, all for you. She worked herself to death for you, Cole. I was there when she was killed, Cole. I couldn't bear to hold her, comfort her, help her at all. I was so overcome with shock, disgust, and hatred that I just shut down. "I could've prevented this," I thought. "I could've worked more jobs with her, I could've gone back to school to get my diploma. I had 6 years to do this. 6 years of marriage and family, and not once did I think of what I could've done-No, should've done." She died on the cold concrete, lying before my trembling feet. The only thing that snapped me out of if was a few simple phrases. "I love you." She said. "You and our child." I couldn't get myself to respond. "I didn't think this was how it would go, but here we are." Blood was already flooding her pierced lungs, and she began to cough it up. It was so painful, Cole. "I trust you, Davey. Take care of our son for me, ok? One last favor for me, alright hon?" I could barely see anything but the blur of passing cars and the neon lights through my sudden tears. I tried to say something, anything. Even a simple "I love you too" would've been enough. But I couldn't. I lightly nodded in what I thought was her direction. She tried to say something else, but she was just inexplicably muted all of the sudden. Maybe it was the blood, maybe it was my cold, distant pseudo-acknowledgement. Maybe the fact that I walked away, left her body on the dark, freezing concrete. Maybe the fact that I didn't go to the police, take her to a hospital, and left the body there for them to find later. Maybe the fact that in her final moments, the man she was so unlucky to have fallen in love with didn't spare a second glance. Maybe the fact that the last touch she felt was some pungent homeless person looting her pockets, and not mine. At the time, I didn't blame myself. I wouldn't. I shifted that all over to you, and became a psychotic, blithering, sorry excuse for a father. Then the drinking started. The beating started. Throughout all that, I was always pounding it into both of our heads: "You killed her, Cole. You were too needy, and she worked herself to death for you." I knew I was wrong. I knew it was my fault, yet I kept going. I couldn't handle it. Even now, when I'm sobbing to a person I barely know over the prison phone, I'm barely able to cope. But I can make things right again, Cole. Once I'm out, once I've payed my dues for what I did to you and Teresa, I'll go back to school and get a job. I'll come back a better man, little guy. Ha... little guy... remember when I used to call you that? We would all be together on the couch, playing one of your favorite board games. Teresa would cook dinner while I set the table, then we'd eat dinner and talk about how your school went. God, I wish I could just go back, buddy. But I can't. I'll keep moving forward, Cole. For your mother and you. I promise. I'll make it right again. I... I know this is on voicemail, and you're not actually listening but... I love you, Cole. Happy birthday.