The Old Man
January 2021
The old man sat in front of the sleek new laptop his son had given him a week ago. “Write your memoir, Dad,” his son had suggested when he gave it to him. That was the same day his son had left him in this godforsaken hellhole. His son had insisted, “It isn’t a retirement home. It’s an assisted living facility. They’re better equipped to help you now that you’re in the wheelchair.”
“Write my memoir,” the old man said aloud, rubbing the stubble on his chin. He stared at the blank screen in front of him and contemplated his life. He knew his son was just trying to give him something constructive to do with his time. He had never been one to watch much TV. These days it probably seemed to his son that he preferred to be alone. He knew he had become unpleasant to be around.
After his wife died, he had reluctantly moved in with his son’s family. His daughter-in-law was a lovely and kind young woman and was a wonderful mother to his grandchildren. Initially, he had very much enjoyed the lively chaos that young children brought to his son’s home. But then the memories came flooding back to him. They had been unexpected and painful. On a daily basis they reminded him of how much he had lost. Once he could no longer compartmentalize the multiple facets of his life, he had begun the steady slide into becoming a grumpy and bitter old man. Then there was the accident. It was entirely his fault and completely avoidable. He had gotten sloppy and had broken his own rules. His son was probably relieved that he now needed the wheelchair because it gave him an excuse to move him to this place.
He looked around at his tiny apartment. His daughter-in-law had tried to make it cheery and homey with family photos and the grandkid’s artwork, but it was depressing nonetheless. The space had no real warmth, and the hospital bed that took up most of his bedroom added to the clinical feel. He knew he would die in this place.
“Write my memoir,” he said again, thinking. Maybe it wasn’t a terrible idea, though he was certain his son was unaware of the darkness that lay in his father’s past. The old man closed the laptop that sat on the desk. He opened a drawer and pulled out the spiral-bound notebook he used to keep up with his expenses. Perhaps the world needed to know that the man that had come to be known as the Vigilante Virginian had not been born a killer; he had been made. The old man opened the notebook, flipped to a new page, and began to write.
