Beesberries

Beesberries 

I have this dream every night.

I am standing over my father, barely conciseness in a hospital bed. We are in the ICU unit again, and though there were other patients, in my dreams I only see him, laying there frail and weak. He is nearly skin and bones now. He had once been a strong man, muscled like one of those action heroes from those lame movies he made me watch as a kid. His eyes are closed, wrinkles over his face that make him appear much older than he actually is, and his cheeks are sunken in his face. His breath is slow and strained, raspy like a musical instrument played out of tune. He is not doing very well.

He hasn’t spoken in days, and when he did before, it was barely coherent. He has maybe days if we are lucky, hours if he’s lucky. I am not holding out hope for some final goodbye. Some final piece of love, not that we were ever close to begin with. We had our differences and drifted apart, and I only came because of my sister telling me how dire his state was. My family thinks holding back my grief, but I feel oddly clam about the whole thing. 

Then he opened his eyes. If you weren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t notice. My faded memory makes them appear bigger than they were, like his eyes widened as far as they could. The truth is, his eyes open slightly to reveal little slits of brown and white. He slowly turned his head, a motion that seemed to take all his effort. He stops at his left side, right where I am standing, and rest his head on the pillow. He closes his barely opened eyes and says

“Beesberries.”

 There are two things in my life that haunt me. Two things make the hair on the back of my neck stand. When I think of them I for a brief moment, I am the person I was then, just as small and scared.

There is a view of reality that we all have. We get used to a certain kind of normalcy. That things exist and make sense. Humans are the kings of earth, nothing can touch us. We think we have the universe all figured out, but there are things out there in the infinity that we should rather not see. Things in the dark, other worlds better left unseen. It takes just a little peak at this truth to shatter someone's faith in the world. Shatter their own self-assurance of their own reality.

I wake up to the dim light and droning noise of my TV. It is set to the news. 

“The scientist made a new breakthrough in what they are calling revolutionary technology. The device would appear-”

I wipe the cold sweat off my face. I have had the same dream since he died. It shouldn’t still bother me. He shouldn’t still bother me. It’s current pitch black in my room other than the TV light. I check my phone, the time reads 8:00.

“The idea is quite romantic, though. Seeing friends and family that are dead in this reality. All the people who never got to say goodbye to their loved ones, get to see them again. Other critics raise the issues of e-”

I decided it’s a great time to go for a run. I started exercising after coming back from seeing dad. It helps keep my mind off him. God, what the fuck am I grieving? Is it him? Is it what he never was? He never liked me much. Never felt proud of me. I remember him talking on the phone once, saying he wished he had only one child, and he wished he had “gotten it right the first time.”

The sidewalk is illuminated by the warm glow of the streetlights. Their light is comforting to me, compared to my house's cold blackness. I run throughout my little piece of the suburbs. I run for about two hours. I already worked out earlier, but running helps clears my mind and tires me out. I sometimes hope, if I exercise hard enough, I won’t have to see him again. It never works.

I return to my house around ten. I put my keys and my phone on the table next to my front door. The news is still playing from my upstairs bedroom, the rest of the is house pitch black, expect from a slight white light coming from my bedroom door. I sigh and head up to my bedroom, resigned to my fate that I am going to fall asleep again and have that dream. I enter my bedroom and just as I go to lay down…

I hear a crash comes from downstairs.

It stops me dead in my tracks. For a moment I think it was all in my head. After all, how could anybody get in my house? I live alone, I am the only one with a house key, and nobody knows where I live. 

Then I hear footsteps coming from downstairs. 

I begin to sweat. I am wondering if I should confront him. I decide against it. I don’t know if it’s a burglar or if they have a weapon or if it is only one person. 

I hear them starting to walk up my stairs.

I check my pockets for my phone. “Fuck.” I whisper to myself as I frantically dig through my pockets. I don't have it. My mind starts racing for where I could have left it. Is it on my bed? No it can’t be, I had when it when I was running, and I couldn’t have lost it on my run, I checked the time when I came in. Then I realize I put my phone downstairs along with my keys, not even registering it. The cold realization washes over me as

The door begins to open.

What I see shatters my reality. For a moment, I don’t even process what I am seeing. All the fear I had before is replaced with something worse. A feeling of pure dread, of pure helplessness. I am in a waking nightmare. For I moment, I am back at the ICU. 

“Who are you?” I ask, my voice awash with confusion and fear. “And why do you look just like me.”

At this moment I spot the hammer in its, no my hands. It looks down at the hammer it is holding, then back at me. Its face is almost blank, devoid of emotion. A hallway of blackness is behind him, only illuminated my the light of TV. We stare at each for a long time. The seconds feel like hours, both of us unmoving. 

“I want your life.” he moans in an almost pained voice. 

“What?” I ask, trying to make sense of the situation. “And why do you look like me?” 

“Because I am you. You are a failure. You don’t deserve your fucking life. Should have gotten it right the first time. I can make it right.” 

“Wh-wh-why?” I stammer out.

“Beesberries.” That word. The word hits me like a truck. So much so that I don’t notice him starting to swing at me. I cover arms over my head and try to shield myself from the on coming blows. 

“WHY DID YOU SAY THAT? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” I scream as he tries to hit me with the hammer. My eyes are closed, and I can’t even feel the hits. 

Beesberries.

Why the fuck would he say that? What right does he have to abuse me, belittle me, and deny me any kind of love that a father should, only to say that to me on his fucking deathbed?

A rage bubbles in me. A deep anger and pain. A need to hurt him.

I open my eyes and tackle him. He falls to the ground and moans in pain. I am on top of him. I punch him in the face hard. I punch him again and again

Beesberries.

 Stupid fucking words. STUPID FUCKING WORDS. He tries to raise the hand with the hammer in it, perhaps in an attempt to swing at me. I take his arm and slam it down. I grab the hammer from his barely closed hand start hitting his head with it.

Beesberries

WHY THE FUCK DOES HE COME BACK IN MY LIFE? WHY NOW? WHY ME?

I keep hitting him with the hammer. He screams at me to stop. I keep going. It's too dark to see, but I can feel the blood splatter on me. He stops screaming as I keep hitting. I don’t know when he did stop. I can’t hear anything at this point. Not the TV, not his screams, not the sound of the hammer against his skull. Just that fucking word

Beesberries. 

After a while, I stop. I drop the hammer, and turn my bedroom light on. I can’t even recognize myself. My head is completely caved in, with brain matter and skull fragments all over the floor. There is a pool of blood coming from in the hallway and leaking into my bedroom.

I am alone. Just like after my father died. He comes barging back into my life even though he never loved me, just to drop that fucking word and leave. He got to do that to me. After years of trauma and abuse, he got to leave me with that. He did this to me. He turned me into a monster. I will never know the truth. I will never know closure. That fucking word. 

Beesberries