Forever Unspoken

TW: mention of alcohol use and abuse.

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“Grow up.”

Those were the last words my father ever said to me before I left for college. The last words he ever said to me before I left this world and joined my mother in the afterlife.

Our relationship had been rocky since my mother passed when I was thirteen. The night of my thirteenth birthday, my mother and I had collided with a drunk driver on our way home from the local art gallery. It was a head on collision and I was the sole survivor. I had spent ninety days in the ICU before being moved into a standard hospital room to begin my recovery.

My father was a mess during those ninety days, but never left my side. He even breathed a sigh of relief the day I was moved out of the ICU. Finally, after a full six months in the hospital, I was discharged. I was still unable to fully walk as I had injured my spine, but my doctor’s allowed me to do physical therapy at home. It was a long process, but after another year… I could walk again unassisted.

That’s when my father began to show his true feelings. In his eyes, the responsibility of the accident had fallen on my shoulders. Because for my birthday I wanted to visit the art gallery where a small piece of my art work was being featured for the world to see. I asked my mother to take me to see the reaction of the crowd that had come out that night. My father had to work, unfortunately, and was unable to attend.

My art piece had been the talk of the town! Everyone complimented me on a job well done. As we left the gallery, my mother had called my father and asked him to pick up some sparkling cider on his way home. She wanted to celebrate in style… well as much as a thirteen year old could. But as we turned the corner out of gallery parking lot, a drunk driver speeding away from the police crossed the center line and hit our car head on.

The drivers side of the car taking most of the damage and killing my mother instantly. My head broke the passenger side window and shards of glass cut my face before covering my lap. When I woke up two months later, I had no idea where I was. But my father was right by my side and that’s all that mattered. He explained to me, through tears, what had happened and we held each other for a long time.

I spent the weeks following crying myself to sleep every night. My broken heart creating more stress on my body and almost killing me on multiple occasions. My father by my side the entire time encouraging me to get better for me and for my mother. The day that I got the news about finally going home, we were ecstatic! I could finally go back to my normal life. Well… almost.

Our relationship had started to become strained that first year after the accident. My father and I spent less time together. He began to get snippy with me when something went wrong, even if it wasn’t my fault. I shrugged it off as stress because he had started working two jobs to support us. I couldn’t blame him for being tired.

The night of my fourteenth birthday, my dad had gotten me a cake that said “Happy Birthday” on it. I obviously wasn’t in the mood to celebrate with it being the first anniversary since my mother’s death. But I obliged in order to make my father happy. I took a small bite of cake and immediately choked. Red velvet. I hated red velvet… but it was my mother’s favorite. I smiled and thanked him for the cake, not wanting to upset him with the mistake.

The next year, he forgot my birthday. I spent the entire day waiting for him to say something, or surprise me with a cake or a gift. But there was nothing. When I reminded him that night, he got snippy with me again. Once again, I shrugged it off as stress and forgave him. He apologized the next day by taking me to my favorite restaurant for dinner. I knew he couldn’t afford it, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by declining.

When my sixteenth birthday came around, my father forgot again. This time I didn’t remind him. He had since picked up a third job as our bills piled higher and higher. I was afraid he would get snippy with me again, so I just pretended it wasn’t my birthday. But, four months later, he finally remembered. I woke up that morning to a cake on the kitchen table and streamers across the ceiling. My father screamed “Happy Birthday!” as soon as I entered the room. It would have been sweet, except… that day was actually my mother’s birthday.

I spent the day pretending it was my birthday to please my father. I could tell he had been drinking as the stress was really getting to him. He never remembered my actual birthday that year. Instead, my father began to drink so much that most nights he couldn’t remember his own name. This is when he became violent. He would take swings as me for absolutely no other reason than being completely wasted. My father was an angry drunk; constantly spewing hate towards me everyday when I came home from school.

He never apologized afterwards. Not even the next day when he had calmed down and sobered up. Instead, he began to hate me more as I was the one alive and not his wife. The night of my seventeenth birthday, he told me he wished I had been the one to die in that crash instead of her. His drinking habits had started to mess with his brain, and I think he was beginning to forget who I was.

After that night, I really threw myself into my art. The first few years after the accident I was afraid to paint. I had believed my wanting to paint was the reason my mother was killed. But after talking to a therapist once a week, I knew that wasn’t true. My mother would have wanted me to keep painting. So, I did. When the time came around to begin applying for colleges, I focused on the ones with the best art programs. My goal was to become a world known artist.

I wanted my paintings in every possible household across the world. My teachers knew I had the talent to do so as they helped me showcase my art at the local gallery. Once again, I quickly became the talk of the town. Word had spread quickly as people from out of town had started to come and look at my artwork. I even had a few offer to give me money for something original.

But I knew I wasn’t ready for the real deal just yet. I felt like I still had more to learn. I applied to many different art programs across the country. I was accepted at most, and had to make the tough decision of where to go. After weeks of looking through pamphlets and talking with my teachers and guidance counselor, I finally decided on the Rhode Island School of Design. I couldn’t believe it. I was finally going to college and could get out of the toxic household I had been living in for the past few years.

The night of my eighteenth birthday, my friends and teachers threw a going away party for me at the art gallery where my art still hung on the wall. I had invited my father to come when I was told of the celebration hoping just maybe he would like to celebrate with me. When in reality, he grunted at me and said, “Art isn’t a career. Grow up.” Before taking another swig of his fourth beer of the night.

That night I packed up the car that I had bought with the money I saved working part time after school. I couldn’t go back to my father now that I had the freedom I needed so desperately. As the party was coming to an end, I stayed to help clean up before heading out on my long drive. It was going to be a few days before I reached RISD and I wanted to reminisce in the place where it all started.

I gave my friends one last hug before they left and I said goodbye to the teachers who treated me more like family than they did a student. I was so thankful for everything they had done for me. If only I had known it would be “goodbye” and not “see you later”. I would have cherished the moment a little longer. As the doors to the gallery closed behind me, I breathed in the cool night air and took in the sights one last time.

Once inside my car, I stuck the key in the ignition and put the gear in drive. Fear suddenly took over when I realized this was really happening. My brain fogged as I began to space out thinking about the future. The excitement and fear of the possibilities taking over my emotions. It was the vibration from the car idling too long that made me snap out of my trance. I released my foot from the brake and lightly touched the gas pedal as I made my way to the exit of the parking lot.

Turning my blinker on, signaling a left-hand turn, I waited for a few cars to pass before making my way out into the road. But as I pulled into the left lane, I was hit head on by a drunk driver. The exact same spot my mother and I had been hit just a few years earlier. Except this time, I was the one killed on impact. The drunk driver… was my father.

After realizing he had no more beer in the refrigerator, he slammed the door closed and the picture from my elementary school graduation fell to the floor. Slowly picking it up, he turned it over in his hand and just stared for what seemed like an eternity. Tears began to flow from my father’s eyes as he realized how terrible he had been for the past five years. The sudden remorse he felt making him do something incredibly irresponsible.

He grabbed his car keys from the counter and stumbled out the front door to his car. The engine started with a roar as his car was quite old now and clearly needed a tune up. Backing out of the driveway, my father knocked over our mailbox as he spun the tires to head north towards the gallery. The drive was short, but still too long for someone who was so heavily intoxicated.

The lines began to blur in his vision which made it hard to decipher which side of the road he was on. But he was also in such a rush that he didn’t realize the gas pedal was almost touching the floor under his now lead foot. I saw the headlights coming my way but there was nothing I could do. The impact happened so fast there was no time to brace for it. I died that day, on my eighteenth birthday. A full life ahead of me after years of abuse, coming to a quick and tragic end. I still got my freedom from the pain and suffering I had endured. It just came at a higher price.