Never-Ending Nightmare

I wasn’t supposed to be spending the night at a friend’s house, but certain events had led to this. We were supposed to spend the night at my place, and tomorrow we would go to our second convention together. We had just barely passed into our teens, and had been so excited for this next step into our newest fascination.

We laughed, we played games, we watched movies, we ate junk food. We did all of these things, pretending this had always been the plan. We pretended the evening had not taken a turn, and I had not needed a place to stay.

We both fell asleep downstairs on the couch after the peak of the night. Soon after, her mom came down to wake us both. We were told to get dressed; we had to go somewhere.

There weren’t many words spoken after that. We all knew where we were going. We all knew what had happened earlier in the evening to lead us to this. Something in my gut knew what I would find upon arrival. But I kept telling myself it was just my anxiety. It couldn’t be as bad as I was imagining it to be.

No one spoke on the ride there. No one said anything. No one told me anything. Who would want to tell that to a child? Who would want to tear their world apart like this? You would think someone would have to.

But no one did.

We were escorted into the hospital, the three of us hand in hand. A wall to combat the ever-rising sense of dread.

As soon as I saw my family in that room, all crying their eyes out, the wall crumbled.

Everyone was there except for my father.

My brain was a scratched record, skipping over and over.

He’s dead.

No, he isn’t!

Where is he, then?

He’s just hurt!

He’s dead.

My mom rushed to me then, her face blotchy, her breaths coming too fast, escaping her too quickly.

I was wrapped in a hug and held tight.

It didn't stop the breaking apart.

I was held close.

It didn’t stop me from falling.

My mother couldn’t speak.

No one spoke.

I was vaguely aware of my friend’s mother holding her close, too, tears streaming from their faces now.

It wasn’t true.

But nobody was saying anything.

Why wasn’t anybody saying anything?

I was suddenly curled in a chair, still crying.

My mother was trying to call my grandmother to tell her, but she couldn’t get the words out. She kept hiccuping and couldn’t catch her breath.

My friend’s mother took the phone from her and broke the news to my grandmother, states away from her now-dead son.

I heard her screaming.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted my daddy.

I wanted him to give me a bear hug so tight I thought my ribs would break.

I wanted him to talk to me late into the evening, answering all my questions about how the world worked.

I wanted him to make terrible dad jokes that frustrated me into a never-ending groan of annoyance.

I wanted to hear him laugh.

I wanted to see his smile.

I wanted him to tell me he loved me.

I just wanted him here.

There was a priest in the room. As if any of us wanted him to tell us this was all a part of God’s plan. As if we wanted any kind of explanation other than how this had happened. As if him being here would make everything fine again, as if the priest would solve all of our grievances.

But the grieving did not end.

I don’t think it ever will, not truly.

My body didn’t feel like my own, the walls were too bright, the room was too small, the chairs all smushed in here so we could all have a place to collapse into, like they did not want our tears to stain the floor.

We were in that room for so long, the pain in my chest never-ending. It wouldn’t stop, that hollowness. My thoughts all seemed to be too foggy to grasp, yet too loud to ignore.

I would never again get another kiss on the cheek or give one.

I would never again feel the air squeezed from my lungs in a hug.

I would never again laugh so hard from whatever dumb thing he said or did that I peed myself.

I would never again cover him with a blanket when he fell asleep in the recliner.

I tried so hard to curl my body tight enough to make everything else disappear.

I wasn’t ready for him to be gone. How was I supposed to grow up without him?

I curled in on myself tighter, as if I could curl up so tight I could squeeze this emptiness from my chest.

Would I ever feel whole again?

Would I ever feel like I was awake?

Would I ever feel like I wasn’t living one of the many nightmares where my parent was killed?

I wanted this to be a nightmare, could almost convince myself it was one.

That I was asleep in first period, and none of the events of today had been real.

I would wake up from the nightmare, sighing in relief, calling my dad as soon as I got the chance, and he would tell me to get off my phone in school, and I would cry and laugh.

This nightmare would never end, though.

I kept feeling myself welling with a scream I could not release, my throat burning, constricting, with the want. The need for release.

The priest tried to speak with me. I couldn’t hear him. He was saying something about God’s will, and how loss will make me stronger. I didn’t believe him. There couldn’t be a reason for any of this. No good reason for the world to tear my father away from us.

The priest paused in his rambles, looking to me expectantly. As if there was something I would say to him to ease his burden of comforting us, to show some sign his preaching was working.

Instead, I stared at the floor and kept whispering to myself. “You’re lying. You’re lying. You’re lying.”