A Calling For the Weak

"They who go feel not the pain of parting; It is they who stay behind that suffer." -Henry W. Logfellow

      Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this would happen. I guess I’ve known all along that the self-destructive path you’ve been trekking would eventually lead to this. All those stories I’ve read and all those TV shows I’ve watched about this seem to imply that it should be natural for me to blame myself, at least partially, for your decision. I don’t blame myself. Why should I? It’s not my fault, you’re the one with the gun. I’m not sad… not even a little. Maybe that would come later.

        Look, it doesn’t matter to me that you thought you’ve fallen so hard you couldn’t get up anymore. I guess I should sympathize with you, maybe shed a few tears for the anguish you must’ve felt… but I’m just not the sympathetic kind. Besides, we were never that close anyway. But there is something about this whole thing that breaks my heart…

        She wanted to follow in your footsteps. She looked up to you like you were God. She tried so hard to please you, everyday. It doesn’t matter to her that you shoved her away time after time. It means nothing to her that every peso you touch turns to booze. She only saw you when you were sober… I had the pleasure of dealing with you when you weren’t.

        She was barefoot when she stepped into your bedroom. Frightened by the loud noise, afraid that “something bad happened to daddy”, she ran at full speed, charging up the stairs and into the scene of the crime. Hours later she begged me to wash her feet over and over again because “I still have daddy on my foot”. Her tears escalated to anger, which eventually dissolved into more tears. I watched her cry, listened as other relatives tried to console her, ignored the ones who asked me how I was doing. Up to now she still couldn’t sleep.

        You were her hero, you know. When you would be gone for days, she would stay up each night waiting for you to come home. Did you even think about how this would affect her? Did you even care about how much effort everyone else around you put in just to help you get better?  Does it matter to you that every night, she would pray to a God that she still believed in to keep you safe?

        You know, it doesn’t matter to me that you’re no longer here. I, for one, believe that we’re better off without you anyway. She would get over you eventually. She would rise above this and it would make her stronger.

        Sometimes I can’t help but remember all those times when we would wake up to the sound of shouting or things breaking. I could remember your random girl for the night crying or nursing her wounds in our kitchen. I could remember hearing my sister cry at night and feeling how tightly she clutched at my shirt while she tries to drown out the sound of your screaming. I could practically feel every blow you’ve ever sent towards me. I could feel your hands all over me. I could feel my body throbbing with pain. I could feel her shaking with fear. I could still feel you here, but not in a good way.

        You are weak. You have always been. If you weren’t, then you would have stopped getting drunk and getting high. You wouldn’t have put so much faith into your gun. You would have sought and accepted treatment… but you didn’t, because you knew it would be hard. You were supposed to be her model of strength, but all you showed her was weakness concealed in anger. I might not have had faith in you but she did. You let her down in so many ways.

        Our lives will go on, and your memories will be left behind. No need to worry (as if you will), she’ll be safe with me. I’ll do everything I can to make sure she feels loved. I’ll be the one that she wanted you to be. You just enjoy yourself, wherever the hell you are.