Father Dearest

"He's not dead." My mother said, tears brimming the edge of her eyes.

"He never was."

My mom and I were talking about my father. At least, I was, my mother refused to speak of him. She told me my father died when I was the age of 5. I'm 16 now; 17 tomorrow.

"Hey mom," I took a seat next to her on the couch.

"Yes, dear?" She turned off the television and looked to me with a small smile. That smile. The smile takes form of a lifeboat in the middle of a dangerously vast ocean, it's the only thing keeping me afloat.

I hang on to that lifeboat in a death grip. I try to announce my words in a way that I won't sink the boat, but it's too late. "How come you never talk about dad?"

The boat deflated, sinking down deep into the unexplored ocean. I go down with it. "Dad died years ago, Veronica." She said with a pained smile. She barely ever calls me by my name. It's usually dear or hun, I've pained her.

Usually, I would let myself sink down and let the water suffocate me for doing what I did, but I did something different. I swam up.

"If so, why don't you talk fondly of him? Why don't you fill me in of the memories we had of him? Mom, I want to know him." I say with all the strength I could muster up to my own mother.

"It's been 18 years, I deserve to know," I say sternly. "Mom, I want to know about my dead father. I don't even know his name."

"He's not dead." My mother said, tears brimming the edge of her eyes.

"He never was."

I sank. Deeper than I have ever before. I look down to find the bottom. To find where I will end. But it wasn't there. I wasn't suffocating.

Drowning is better than almost drowning. Drowning is somewhat peaceful, once you drowned, you can't do anything about it. You are done.

Almost drowning is pure dread. The dread of the anticipation of the drown. Your mind is racing with the worst possible outcomes. In truth, almost drowning is just another type of drowning. Drowning in negative thoughts.

I need to find the bottom.

"Why did you lie to me?" I say, hurt laced in my voice. She looked away sadly. Sobbing quietly.

"I," I hesitate before taking a deep breath, "I want to meet him."

My mom looks to me and whimpers. I hate to see her like this but I want answers. I want to find the bottom of this ocean, no matter how horrible the way down was.

My mom, seeing that I won't give up shuddered and extended her shaky hand to the coffee table, to grab a pen and notepad. She shakily wrote down what seemed to be an address.

She grabbed my hand and placed the note face down on my palm. She didn't take her hand off mine. She closed my hand and held in it in a death grip. She pulled my hand to her face and sobbed into it, apologizing profusely. I couldn't help but feel sorry.

She stopped crying and put my hand down. I took a look at the note's contents. My eyes widen. I looked back at my mother who started crying once more. I envelop her in a hug. She starts sobbing into my shoulder. I start crying a bit as well.

"I'll take the bus," I say drying both her and my tears, "I'll be back in a few hours, okay." My mom nods and hands me a twenty-dollar bill. I pocket the bill and hug her goodbye.

The walk to the bus stop was uneventful. Just a couple of homeless stoners on the streets, your ordinary people walking to the bus stop. I enter the bus and show the note to the driver who raised his brows and looked at me before ushering me to take a seat.

I sat in the window side of the seats. I sat there looking out at the bustling street outside. As I get lost in my thoughts, I see a young man, probably in his 30s take a seat next to me.

He waves at me and I awkwardly wave back.

The bus takes off and I start rethinking my decision to come in the first place. 'What if he doesn't want to see me? What if-' my thoughts were cut short by the man sitting next to me.

"Hey kid, my name's Luke. What's yours?" Luke extended his hands to shake mine.

I shook it and said, "Veronica Francis." Luke doesn't look like a creep. He's well-kempt, tidy, well dressed and quite attractive. Luke smiled. "Where you heading?"

"To see father dearest." I show him my note. His eyes widened for a second but go back to it's calm, half-lidded state.

"What for?"

"To fix things," I mumble, barely audible.

"You know, why fix what you rather forget?" He asks with a sincere smile.

I don't answer. "Your mom against visiting him?"

I nod. "I say, you should listen to her." He says, keeping his smile strong. "You don't get it." I snap. "She lied to me."

"She lied for a good reason." He says, his smile faltering. I don't answer. He sighs and turns back to the aisle. "Goodluck, kid."

...

Once I reached there, I was the only one left on the bus. Luke had jumped off 10 minutes ago. His question still lingers in my head. 'Why fix what you rather forget?' I shake it off and exit the bus, making sure to thank and tip the driver with a 1 dollar bill I brought along with the 20.

I look at the large stone building with fences with barbed wires. It gives off an eerie feeling.

I walk past the sign that says:

Welcome to Broken Hill Prison

Not very welcoming sign, if I do say so myself. I go to the guards and say, "Hello, my name is Veronica Francis. I'm here to visit Murphy Francis."

They told me how the process will go and handed me a visitor pass. I thanked them and entered the building.

I explain to the lady in the front desk what I was here for and she led me to a white room with a glass screen split through the middle and small table like stalls with a phone next to it.

She told me to wait in front of the stalls as they call for my father.

A few minutes later, two police officers and a man appeared behind the glass screen. The man was my father.

I haven't seen his face in forever. He was fit, had a peach fuzz and short hair and large bags under his eyes. His face is forever stuck with a frown. He stood in front of me. I picked up the phone. He did the same.

"H-hey, dad," I say to the phone. He smiles. Not the sincere smile Luke has, nor the genuine sad smile that mom possesses. The smile was more eerie. "Hey, Vera. Been a while hasn't it?" His voice was coarse. He sounded intimidating.

I smile and nod. "It's my birthday tomorrow," I say.

He nods. "Turning... 17?" He asks. I silently nod. He smiles.

"How long is your sentence?" I ask careful not to flip a switch in him. "32 years."

"Why?" I ask, barely audible.

"Your mother hasn't told you?" He raises a brow. I shook my head no.

"Heh. She's a bitch."

My breath hitched at what he said. He noticed but didn't comment further.

"I killed a man. Two actually." He said too calmly.

"W-why?"

He looked at me and chuckled. "Nosy one are you? Guess you got that from me." He looked around the room. "One word, Vera: boredom." He said with a sadistic smile.

The police at the back signalled it time was up. He muttered a bye and I waved at him. Still dumbstruck at what he said.

The ride back home was silent, numb. There was only one thing in my mind:

Luke was right. Why should I fix what we all rather forget?

Once I got home, I ran to my mom and engulfed her in a hug.

She smiled at me and said, "Did you find what you were searching for?"

I could see the bottom of the ocean. I nod.

"The reason you don't talk good things about him-"

She cut me off, "is because there are no good things."