You

Tell Me My Worth

I was taught at a young age about death. I was taught about living and breathing and dying.

My parents never taught me about death, my grandparents did. The very same way their parents had.

So I suppose it's safe to assume that I was as ready as I could be for it. And when it came, I wouldn't say I welcomed it, but I knew it was coming. So did you.

When you first saw me, you knew that it was coming for me. You knew but you never told me. I think that's a bit unfair. You should have at least told me. You owed me that much.

I recall my grandparents telling me that it's important to find peace in things. We shouldn't hold grudges or harbour any ill feelings towards anyone because life is fleeting, it's not ours.

I just didn't know it was yours.

But I followed their preaching and I always kissed my wife goodbye and I always reminded her that I loved her. I always made sure my kids knew that they were loved and I worked hard to make sure they would always have a roof over the head, regardless of what happened to me. I made my family a priority the way any good parent would. 

So they knew I loved them, they knew despite our familial spats and disagreements that I loved them and I knew they loved me and I pray they hold onto that the way I am.

I think that was my last conscious thought before my last breath. I think I was praying that they knew that.

I know you know how much they loved me now. You know that and I think you hate it. But you hate a lot of things, this I'm sure of. You hate crowds now. You hate your TV. You hate the silences that follow you around at work. You hate me.

You don't know me and you never will but you hate me.

But I don't hate you. 

Remember? I was taught not to hold grudges. You have to understand how important that promise is that I made to my grandparents because all I want is to hate you.

Even now as I watch you sitting at the dinner table with your wife and kids eating a meal with pleasantries being shared amongst you, I don't hate you. I just wonder.

I wonder a lot of things now. Like do you picture how I would be sitting with my family if that bullet had missed? Does it hurt you to know that I never will again?

I don't hate you but I can never forgive you. See, I know what happens to little girls that grow up without a father and I've met the boy that weren't taught to be men the way I wanted to teach my boy to be a man, so for them I'm angry and I can never forgive you.

Taking my life is one thing. Taking their's is another.

You don't allow the TV to play while you're home and you barely ever look at your phone and though I am aware that I am haunting you, I think through them...you're aware as well.

It makes you angry, I can see it. I can see and hear your justifications; your reasoning and your conviction in that reason but I think you forget that you start to lie.

You say I was armed when my hands were bare, you say I resisted when my hands were on display for you to see. You asked me questions to which I stuttered out the answers to.

Have you ever felt that kind of fear? The kind where your words become lost in your mind and your heartbeat becomes the loudest thing you hear and you feel like you're not getting enough air even though you're standing there hyperventilating? Do you know that kind of fear? 

I don't think you do. I don't think you ever will.

You can instil that fear by flicking a switch in your cruiser and those familiar blue, white and red lights flash. That, something I knew meant safety, became my worst nightmare.