would prance with my parents to the shops through the streets of my kingdom, blocking out their cancerous appearances up ahead. I remained safe from them in this costume, I was free to sing and dance; it was my own little world and my imagination became my only outlet.
It was one of the only times in my youth that I felt security and freedom.
Two
I was eighteen years old when my father went to jail.
I would have preferred to remain unaware of every detail that led to his lifelong imprisonment, but unfortunately, I was forced to participate in his trial. I was used as a character reference and I was pressured to stand in court and attempt to manipulate the truth.
I had to speak loud and proud about a person I truly despised.
I had to tell the jury and the judge that he was a good man and that his criminal actions were a result of the drugs that he had taken. I had to lie through my clinched teeth.
Had I been more independent and able to count on myself to provide a safe roof over my head, I wouldn't have even attended his trial. However, I knew I would be disowned by my mother if I refused to help my father in his time of need.
It was one of the hardest things I had to do in my life. The spotlight of the courtroom and the burning sensation of all eyes fixated on me each time I spoke or moved made it immensely stressful. I had to act like the man who had destroyed my childhood and traumatized my life with his actions deserved mercy.
The hearing was the last time I saw my father. He sat there in his chair, chained up like an animal. His appearance that day made him look vulnerable and it wasn’t even the fact he was worried about losing his freedom. No. The vulnerability was in his eyes; his lack of drugs was turning him into a pathetic prick. I know it's wrong and awful, but I find it almost satisfying that the last memory I have of my father is of him suffering and deteriorating into nothing.
I can still envision him bent over. Trying to hold back a dire need to wheeze and cry at the pain that he was going through. His own addiction. The real love of his life that caused him to abuse me so many times, had now finally turned against him.
As my father was sentenced to life, my mother was screaming at the judge. I didn’t take much notice of her, as I was too fixated on witnessing my father get pushed by the policeman while he was struggling to walk in his shackles. My mother kept yelling how much she loved him. She howled with panic; it was honestly entertaining.
She wept that the only man that she will ever love was now taken from her. But I found this pathetic. She never actually loved him and even she knew this. When he used to overdose, she wouldn’t even call an ambulance; instead, she would take the rest of the gear and inject another syringe into her crusty, infected skin. She only loved how he stole what they needed and how smart he was at making enough money to support their addictions.
Regardless of how much mayhem she caused in the courtroom that day, justice had prevailed. My father was shoved out of my sight for the last time in my life and the door was slammed behind him.
It was finally over. The bridge between the two of us was burnt forever and he would never be able to hurt me again. I felt so much relief that I sighed to myself.
I was certain that my life would get better.
•••
The terrible incident that led to his incarceration occurred on a quiet Tuesday afternoon. It was a peaceful sunny day. My father was on his usual route on the bus to the leafy green, white picket fence suburbs.
My father used to go to the wealthier side of town, which was inhabited by Catholics who lived good lives and went to church every Sunday. These people were quite conservative and would avoid any confrontation with any danger. They were the ideal prey in my father’s greedy eyes, as they were afraid and they had what we didn't—real wealth. My father could literally see the tips of a thousand syringes shining in their glimmering jewelry when he laid eyes on their possessions.
He was obsessed with thieving the rich.
He had a knack for stealing belongings worth tens of thousands of dollars, and that was half the reason he and my mother were so addicted to heroin. They could sustain an addiction far greater than the average junkies.
If my father hadn’t been so relentless in his thieving, they would have slowly wasted away and died from illnesses and withdrawals.
Unfortunately, I was never that lucky.
•••
On this quiet Tuesday afternoon my father was on one of his infamous escapades. He used a screwdriver to slowly unhinge a window frame and slide his way into this beautiful, warm home. He had done his usual routine of dashing straight into the couple’s bedroom and he wasn’t disappointed. He found watches, earrings and other expensive jewelry.
He took as much as he could carry and began to scurry back downstairs as quickly as he could. En route for the window he came through he was startled when he encountered the homeowner.
He grabbed my father in panic and my father took the screwdriver and plunged it into the poor man’s neck. He stabbed him three more times in the chest with this blunt weapon, which was an absolutely brutal and gory way to kill somebody, and then he fled the house as quickly as he had entered.
Thankfully, the victim's wife and kids weren't home and the police had been contacted by the neighbors, who were watching for a thief in the area, as they had personally been robbed not too long ago.
The police caught my father just two blocks away, with pockets full of possessions that obviously weren't his and a screwdriver that was covered in blood. They arrested him, went to the house where the incident was reported to have occurred, and found the poor, innocent victim lying dead on the floor.
The saddest part of this story is the man’s family never got an opportunity to tell him they loved him one last time. They weren't even allowed to enter their own home because the forensic team had taken complete ownership of it during the investigation and due to the nature of the death, the family was better off not witnessing their beloved father gruesomely stabbed and lying lifeless on their blood-stained wooden floorboards.
I saw the family at the court hearing. They were a beautiful family of five: a gorgeous mother with three boys and one young girl. When it was my time to talk, the pressure of knowing that they were looking at me was enormous. Their numb, critical gazes turned the courtroom into an inferno of judgment which burned me to a crisp.
I refused to tell my father goodbye when I was given the opportunity to see him one last time before the hearing. I knew that this final act of disapproval would haunt him forever and I was repulsed at the thought of his murderous hands touching me.
I exited the courtroom that day to a sunny afternoon. My mother was wailing loudly as we walked down the stairs. I was satisfied knowing my father would rot in his jail cell forever, far away from being able to belittle me and intimidate me again.
Three
Do you think it’s sad when people are alienated?
After my father went to jail, I prepped my mind for long-awaited daisies and sunshine to enter my life. I genuinely thought
