‘Better late than never!’. The phrase that was oh so dear to my dad.
He was never there. He was out of touch. So was I. We were both at fault. Though he stopped reaching out first. Now those words ring through my head as I dash down main street. The busy honking of car horns flood my ears, causing me to wince. My ever so slowly growing headache is getting worse by the minute and these damned cars are not helping. I slide around the corner, rain pelting across my face as the already present puddles almost cause me to lose balance. This felt almost like a cliche movie scene of the main character running to their love interest. Though that could not be further from my reality. It's not fair. I wish I was running to my soon to be lover; instead I was running to my father’s apartment. One distressing phone call is all it took and I was jammed into a train travelling towards a neighbouring city, now rushing to find his apartment. Over the call his words were slurred together, perfectly slurred for me to realise that this was real. He was in danger.
“Miss, do you have a minute to talk about–” A voice of a preacher echoed. I dashed past him, not even acknowledging the question. I hear him huff quietly before going to bother his next target. My balance is almost, yet again lost as one of those ‘Just Eat’ cyclist deliverers rush past. I make my way to a crossing. The lights are currently green yet I don’t wait for them to turn from amber to red. I rush across the road, hoping to god that I don’t get hit and share a similar fate to my father and then the hail stones start. The tiny bullets of ice are battering off of my head, causing my headache to get worse. Right about now I wish I were dead. Maybe if I hadn’t left my tiny, suffocating apartment to assist the man who wouldn’t do the same for me, I could pretend to be dead. As I’m running up a path, encapsulated by shops on either side, I catch a glimpse of my own reflection. Mascara is running sinfully down my face. My eyes are red and puffy. My clothes are drenched. And my hair is soaking wet with little pellets of ice stuck between the strands. If I had pretended to be dead, my mascara would have been beautifully applied, my eyes would have been perfectly preserved, my clothes would be new and comfortable and my hair would be neatly laid across my front. But no. I did not pretend to be dead; instead I chose to be the empty shell of the woman I am and to help my father. My father, who hasn’t contacted me in any way unless it benefited him. Though I do still love him. He is my father. My father is not perfect but that's okay. The shops had now passed. A row of trees cried in the wind as they were stripped of their leaves. These trees led up to my fathers apartment. Rushing down the path, I quickly make it to the front door to his apartment complex. I barge in, almost throwing myself up the stairs as the front door becomes visible. Once I reach the door, I start banging. The thudding seemed very melodic. Thud. Thud. Thud. Pause. Repeat. There was no answer. After the cycle repeated another couple of times, I gave up and just rammed my way through the door. I was met with a foul odour. A plastic yellow bottle was irresponsibly discarded on the floor.
“Dad?” I called out. Silence. A deafening silence at that too. Other than the faint humming sound that has no source. I exhale; letting out a breath I never knew I was holding. I slowly shuffle over to the small yellow bottle, squatting down to pick it up in my trembling hands - I can’t tell if they are trembling from the cold or stress at this point, maybe both -. The bottle was a prescription. An empty prescription. I shot up and frantically started running from room to room, yelling out for my father. I entered his ensuite bathroom to be met with… a sight. My father sat with his back propped up against the wall next to the toilet. His head was thrown back in a way that could not be comfortable. His eyes were shut and a disturbing smile etched across his face. I stood, mouth agape. The only movement coming from me was the trembling that was now peaking. I tilt my eyes down a little to see the yellow bottle that was now getting crushed from my clenched fists. My eyes were bulging from their sockets as I looked back at my fathers lifeless body. I was late.
I was late.
I was late.
If I had maybe gotten the train before, or if I had run a little faster. Maybe if that preacher didn’t try to stop me. Maybe if I hadn’t slipped. If any of these things hadn’t happened I might have gotten here on time. I look back down at the yellow bottle, now feeling a cold sensation run down my palm. I dropped the bottle to see a slash across my palm as red ran down.
He had already been dead, and would remain dead forever and I couldn’t even run quick enough to prevent this. However, he had made up his mind, I don’t think that there was anything I could have done to change his perspective, make him want to live. At least he is at peace.
“DAD!” I wailed.
My father had always told me ‘Better late than never.’ but that could never have been true.