I
did not cry at my father’s funeral. Not even when they lowered him
into the ground to rot for all eternity. I left my mother who
clutched at me like a beast. In her grieving madness she thanked me
for being the strong one. As I was walking home I saw a man on the
ground. He smelt like booze and piss. I tried to lift him and failed.
"What
the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t just lie on the ground
defeated. Get up you fucking bum."
I
tried again. Same result. I kicked him in the stomach. He let out a
groan.
"You
fucker. You’re alive. Get up."
I
hovered over him, screaming in his face and started punching him
around the head and neck. In-between blows he looked at me directly
for the first time with his diluted blue eyes. I unclenched my fists
and wrapped my arms around his chest and started weeping.
I
stayed like that for a very long time. He did not move or say a
thing.
Mike LaFontaine
twitter.com/bleakmidwinter
The Secret History
Donna Tartt