Part Two.

Richard

I walk down the dimly lit hallway. The slight Air Conditioning just mixes with the mold and dust and creates a musty feeling. I can already feel the grime of the place slowly crawling up my arms and beginning to envelop me. I sit there staring at the white paint cracking on the door in front of me. Looking into the peep hole, and wondering if he is staring back at me.

I don’t know why I wait to knock. I just sit there knotting my hands into tight fists and clench my jaw. It has been months since I’ve seen him. The sleepless nights, the fights with my second wife, and the lack of time I have had for my other child. All of these things come to the forefront. Some problems are intangible. You try and rationalize them out and attempt to change them with your behavior. Other problems are able to be seen directly in the face. You can look at them, and talk to them. You can hate them, but you love them. If you didn’t love them, then there would be no problem, because even after all some people do to you, in the end you are addicted to them.

I sigh and knock on the door. Knock Knock Knock. The sound reverberates in my head. I barely tapped the door, hoping that he would not hear me. That way I could walk away, and say that I was brave enough to come. After a minute I start to turn away when I hear the click of the knock. The door slowly opens and there stands the skeleton of my former son. He opens the door and stands there looking at me with his sullen hollowed eyes. They are black, and don’t hold the life they once used to. His hair is shaggy, matted, and covers half his face. He holds up his long thin digits over his eyes, attempting to shield them from the fifty watt hanging in the hall. How long has he been in that dark room? He wears no shirt, and it looks as if he has not eaten in weeks. His blue jeans are tied around his waist with an old orange extension cord. You can count every single rib on his torso. He used to be so muscular. Now he looks like he just come out of a concentration camp.
My son, the Holocaust survivor.
He stands away from the door and motions me in with his long disgustingly thin fingers. I follow suit and immediately a mixture of urine, vomit, and alcohol invade my senses.
The smell of teen spirit.
The room is dark with only a faint light from a street lamp outside. There is a small ceiling fan slowly circulating above our heads. The room is bare. There is simply nothing in there with the exception of a mattress and an old chair. A blonde haired woman lies half covered by a white urine soaked sheet on the floor, while her legs are draped across the mattress. I just can’t help but look around the room. There is so much space that simply isn’t being used. I notice a crack in the wall at the far end of the room. All it needs is some plaster, an easy fix. I make this comment to him, but he simply states that he hasn’t had time.

He sits on the mattress and just stares blankly towards me. I look at his arms, blackened and bruised. His toes also show the signs of injections. With every drug injected into his body, a piece of his soul was ejected. I notice all the empty syringes and beer bottles. All reminders of my failures as father. I try to look him in the eye, it is a vain search for something that used to be there. He can’t hold my gaze and just stares down. Does he hate me? Does he blame me? Where did I go wrong?

I try and start the conversation we both know is coming, “you can come home if you want.” I look at the girl on the floor with empathy, she is someone’s daughter. “She can come too, but you both have to go to rehab. You know the deal”. This is probably the millionth time we’ve been through it. He gets in trouble, and comes home. He goes to rehab, does well for a while, but he always falters. There has to be hope left? He just looks at me, “nah, I’m getting clean on my own. These needles are old”. He still has a piece of rubber wrapped around his bicep. “I just need some money to get me through the week, and I start my new job Monday”. I have to hold firm. He slumps to his side and begins to vomit profusely. I just get up and start to walk out. I won’t give him the money unless he at least tries to get fixed. I have tried to get him to clean. It’s not a one-way street. As I move towards the door he begins to yell, “Fuck you!” Here it comes. I turn around and he somehow manages to get himself up with his boney arm. His eyes, once which had no emotion at all, are now filled with a vile hate. And it is directed at me.”I’m sorry that I’m not fucking Duncan!”, his half brother, my second child. “I just need a little fucking help, and you turn your back on your own goddamned child!” He blames me. It probably is my fault. But, I can’t give him the money. As much as it hurts. It isn’t my fault right? I mean that’s what they tell you at those meetings. Yes, I go to meetings. Addicted to your loved ones addiction. I listen to all the other parents, wives, sisters, and brothers. They all talk of blaming themselves, but that they had some realization that it’s not their fault. It’s all just fucking words. I am this boys father and I have allowed him to lead his life to this shit hope apartment filled with drugs, and whores. Wasn’t I supposed to be the one who guided him. Was I too lenient, or too harsh? Which part of the delicate balance did I break?

The woman turns her head and moans something inaudible. How high is she? I wonder if her parents are looking for her. Danny yells at me some more and then turns and begins to vomit. I just turn around and walk out the door. I tried didn’t I? Can I now walk out with a clear conscience? Should I just give him the money? I mean, maybe he is attempting to be honest with me and just needs it for rent? It could be. He could steal the money if he wanted it for drugs. Maybe his telling me and asking me straight forward for the money is a sign he is trying to get clean. Trying to get his life straight. And by walking out the door I am doing nothing more than walking out on his chance to fix his life! No, I have to walk out. That is what they tell you at the meetings. That you can not give money to an addict. But, this is not an addict. It is my son. For all his imperfections, it is my son! When I look into his face and his hollowed out eyes, I see the reflection of my failings as a father. Every fiber of me tells me to turn around an to take his head and put it into my chest. To take care of him. But, I just keep walking away. As the tear begins to roll down my eye.