He Cries

*This is a work of fiction.*

After my mother died, I changed. I don’t remember doing so; I was barely two years old at the time. But my life was changed.

            I think about what my life could have been like, if she had lived. Would I have cut my hair in that particular style? Would I weigh as much as I currently do?

            Would I be happier?

            Would I even still be here?

             I go to a dark place with these thoughts. I fight a lot. I get in trouble, all the goddamn time. Mainly for my profanity. My dad would be called into the office, the head-teacher would lecture us both and then when we got into the car he would cry. He cries a lot, I don’t know why. Then I start to question what he used to be like, before Mum died. Did he smile more, and act more easy-going? Would he have a beard or be a chain smoker if she was still here? I’ll never know. But I see him, or at least see through his shell to the emptiness within. He’ll do anything for an easy life, and when it gets tough- he cries.

We rarely talk, not just about Mum but about anything anymore. Not that we ever did before, but now that I’ve hit teenage years he’s drawn back even further, almost as if he is afraid of me. Maybe I remind him of Mum, and that’s why he keeps his distance. The way I tilt my head when I’m confused or only eat apples at the weekend, all just painful reminders of a women he once loved and lost. Or the reasons why he cries.

He took me for coffee the first time I got called into the head masters lair. I had just said ‘fuck’ for the first time at Susie Dickens because she stole my thought about Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and acted like it had been her own. Not only did the teacher commend her, but he didn’t believe me. Hence ‘fuck’, followed by a ‘you’.

That time my father didn’t cry, he just seemed disappointed. That is worse, because then you feel like shit and there is nothing to do. When someone cries you can get a tissue, or make tea. Tea fixes everything.

            ‘What’s going on?’ that’s was his opening line.

            ‘What do you mean?’ I parry back.

            ‘This isn’t like you,’ he said. I swiped a lick of foam onto my finger and suck on it.

            ‘How do you know? It could be me, just not the ‘me’ right now.’

            ‘What?’

            ‘There could be a thousand ‘me’s’, all out there struggling to be dominant. You’re a mechanic, think of this as a test drive.’

            ‘Well, I think this model is faulty.’ We both get our sarcasm from the same place, his father. Unfortunately it never skips a generation. I would have laughed, but the mood seemed to suggest not to. 

            ‘I could just be getting on the road.’ That’s when the disappointment showed. I think he wanted me to be remorseful, sorry for what I had done. He wanted me to be the perfect new model. But when a tragedy strikes, it travels through time. Time can heal wounds but also makes new ones. I made decisions I wouldn’t have if Mum was here. If she had been, I may not have said ‘fuck’ at all. And if she had been here Dad and I would have a relationship opposite to what we do now. I’d be a whole different me.

After I explained Dad didn’t say anything, but that night was the first time I saw him cry.