The Memory Of His Face

I didn't hear the letter come through the door that morning. I heard the barks of our dog warning the postman off. I lay there, not yet willing to let my hazy dreams slip away. Not yet willing to accept the start of another long sleep-deprived day. I groaned as I finally half-opened my aching eyes and swung my legs out of bed. My feet momentarily touched the cold wooden floor and recoiled, before finding their way into the fluffy slippers. This was a well perfected routine, standing and stretching before my eyes came to rest on that same old tired face in the mirror. A face still smeared with the make-up from last nights shift, a permanently hungover frown from drinking behind the bar at work. The only way of dealing with the noise and chaotic nightmare of shifts that never ended before 3am.

I knew I was getting too old for this. My husband was long since fed up of me climbing into bed stinking of stale alcohol and cigarettes at some ridiculous hour. He had already left for work that morning, leaving me to rest my over-worked and under-paid tequila ridden body.

The dog was still barking, dragging me back to reality as I pushed my hair off my face and blinked at my dishevelled reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes and smudged eyeliner. A mess.

'Okay, okay, I'm coming' I mumbled as I plodded down the stairs. I grabbed the pile of letters and leaflets in front of the door, squinting at them angrily whilst shielding my eyes from the light glaring in through the glass panes. George, our four year old spaniel came flying at me as I entered the living room, nearly knocking me over as he licked my bare legs, exuberant that I had finally risen from my bed. I bent down and stroked his white chin, receiving an enormous lick to the face as a thank you. He followed me through to the kitchen, where I discarded the post onto the table and boiled the kettle, desperately awaiting the caffeine fix. I sipped my coffee and lit my first cigarette of the day, noticing a post it note on the table from my husband. I picked it up with a little smile and read 'Good morning beautiful. I didn't have time to walk George this morning, I'm sorry! Have a nice day off, I love you!'

He was a good man. One in a million. Always leaving me little notes and buying me flowers and presents, and not just on birthdays and anniversary's like most dutiful husbands. I knew I was lucky. I decided to walk George after a second cup of coffee, nip to the shops and make a nice dinner for when he returned. Absent-mindedly grinning to myself, I flicked through the post on the table, crumpling the pointless takeaway menus and leaflets, launching them at the bin with a practised precision. Stacking the unopened bills into a small pile with a promise to open them later, my eyes fell on another letter. There was nothing extraordinary about it, just a pre-paid envelope with my name and address handwritten, but something puzzled me. Something about the long flowing letters and the way the letter R at the start of my name was formed. I sipped my coffee and frowned at the intruding letter. My heart fluttered as I turned the envelope over and stared at an inscription I hadn't seen since I was a child. ANDREWS A0413DA. I blinked several times in disbelief. Surely not, after all these years?

My hands trembled as I turned the envelope over, examining every inch of it before placing it carefully back on the table as if it would explode any second. Shaking my head, I could feel the shock being slowly replaced by anger. I stared at the envelope for what seemed like forever, remembering every moment of pain and betrayal. Memories of loneliness and loss, and unparalleled anger that had haunted me through my childhood, and been forced to hide in the furthest depths of my mind as I entered adulthood. It all came rushing back in one swift hit.

I stood up suddenly, knocking my chair backwards onto the tile floor with a deafening crash. I grabbed the letter off the table and marched over to the bin, dropping it inside so it fell amongst the rubbish where it belonged. The uncontrollable panic was coursing through my veins, as I struggled to light another cigarette, looking for some kind of release. I gulped the rest of my coffee, but it was cold and left a bitter useless taste in my mouth that made me yearn for alcohol. Holding my cigarette between my shaking lips, I frantically threw the kitchen cupboards open searching for the whisky that I knew was somewhere. Finally finding it behind tins of cheap soup that would never be opened, I poured myself a generous glass. Pacing around the kitchen as the liquid burnt my throat, making the room feel ten degrees hotter than it was. I took deep drags of my cigarette, willing myself to calm down, praying for my heart to stop beating so rapidly. My palms were sweating and pins and needles were chipping away at my fingers. I lowered myself to the cold kitchen floor, holding my head between my knees as my vision blurred, knowing I needed to calm myself before I ended up in full blown panic. George had crept over amidst the chaos, and was slowly licking my hand, trying to calm me. This brought me back into the room, and I stroked his silky head, silently thanking him for his incomparable reassurance until my breathing returned to normal. Then I arose. Walking cautiously over to the bin, I peered inside as if expecting the letter to have somehow disappeared. It stared back at me, an unspoken understanding of how much control the man had over me.

I reached in, carefully lifting the letter out between my forefinger and thumb, wanting as little contact with it as possible. As if by doing this, it would keep me as far away as possible from the man whose hands had also touched that very paper. A man whose DNA I shared but was so far from worthy of being called a Father. A man who I hadn't heard from since I was twelve years old, a child so damaged and broken from the evil he had committed. He was a monster and I'd spent a long eighteen years telling myself that he was not my Father, but you cannot lie to blood. You can only trick yourself for so long, hiding behind childish lies and emotional blockades; pretending no part of him is you.

I had never experienced the childish simplicity of imagined beasts and theatrical nightmares, because all of mine were real. They had haunted me through the years, and still I awoke screaming, not yet able to hide away in the depths of sleep from the trauma of my past. Traumas that that man had single-handedly created and etched into my mind. I knew I had to face him one last time. I owed it to myself.

Breathing in through my nose and heavily exhaling, fighting with myself to stay calm and collected, I tore the envelope open like a plaster being ripped off to minimise the pain. I pulled the letter out and stared at it blankly, willing myself to allow the words to come into focus. I took in the stamped letters 'H.M,PRISON'. The address was only an hour or so from here. He'd been so close for so long and I'd had no idea. My hands were shaking as I scanned the letter, my mind fumbling over the words, struggling to make sense of what was written. My Father was ill and he thought it would be good for him to see me one last time before he passed. Good for him. Not a single care of whether it would be good for me to see the man that had so nearly ruined my life. He had always been an arrogant, self concerned pig. An angry and unpredictable monster that had taken so much from me and left me with the bare threads of existence. I felt numb with shock, but forced myself to re-read the letter, his scribbled words demanding that I visit him in prison so we could have one last chance at a relationship before it was too late. I shook my head in disbelief. It was too late eighteen years ago. It was too late the second he did what he did.

I shoved the letter into my pocket and grabbed my mobile phone. I took the dog lead from the hook by the back door, and walked out of the house with George. Heading for our usual field, I frantically ran the plan over in my head, ignoring the birds in the sky and the sheep beyond the hedges that normally made me smile. I barely noticed the cars passing by and the people on the street. My mind was filled with the memory of his face. He'd be much older now, probably grey and wrinkled and tired from eighteen years in a cell. I hoped he'd had a miserable life, enduring days full of regret and agony at what he'd done.

As soon as we were away from the prying ears of the man walking his collie and the two women jogging and chatting, I pulled out my mobile phone and dialled the number. The ringing jolted me back to reality, only just fully realising what I was about to do. I hastily jabbed at the buttons on my phone and hung up. I gazed upwards, taking in the sun hidden behind the floundering clouds and the sheer intensity of the blue sky, conscious of how dry my throat was. I closed my eyes briefly before re-dialling the number and waiting for it to be answered at the other end. I spoke quietly, looking around guiltily, scared to let the world know my secret. It was over much faster than I expected. Once I'd given my details and read out the name and number of a man I hardly knew, I was booked in for the very next week. Just like that, I thought. After all these years of wondering and worrying, a thirty second phone call had thrown me onto the next step of this hellish journey.

I breathed a sigh of relief. As I watched George run aimlessly around the field, I smiled and gave myself a mental pat on the back. I was going to face my fears, stare the devil in the eye and offload all the hurt that had weighed me down for all these years. And then I would walk out of there with my head held high and he would be dead to me.

The next few days were torturous. I could barely sleep, but when I did the nightmares came thick and fast, haunting me through the sporadic hours of sleep that I managed to grasp. Work was a blur, a constant crowd of drunk figures with no faces, all looking for something that couldn't be found. At home I was a shell, forcing myself to smile and act like nothing was wrong. I couldn't bring myself to admit to my husband that I'd lied about my Father all these years. So I smiled and nodded, laughed at the films we watched, cooked beautiful dinners and dragged myself through every conversation until the day finally came. I had booked the day off work, not telling my husband, feeling even more racked with guilt at the deceitfulness of what I was doing.

That morning I dressed in black trousers and a striped blouse with a blazer, something I'd bought for a previous job interview that I hadn't been able to face. I wanted to look smart and educated, professional and strong. All the things I wasn't, but I so desperately wanted my Father to think I was. Some insecurity in me wanted my Father to be shocked that I had turned out so well despite all of his efforts, that I was a successful woman, not the anxious alcoholic mess that I really was. I folded his letter and placed it in my handbag, intent on reading it over and over to fuel the anger that I was ready to spew towards him. I had thoroughly planned my speech in my head, staring at myself with cold eyes in the mirror, practising how I would take control and not let him manipulate me into feeling sorry for a sad, lonely old man.

I kissed George on the head before stepping out of the house and heading towards the bus stop. I watched the cars fly past me, catching second long glimpses of faces singing along to radios, shouting into mobile phones or staring blankly at the road ahead. Each one of them oblivious to the importance of the day. It seemed ludicrous to me that the people walking past could not tell that I was the daughter of that awful man, that they couldn't tell from the fire behind my eyes that I was ready to banish this demon from my life for a final time.

The bus pulled up and I jumped aboard, in my own world as I distractedly paid the fare and took a seat at the back. Looking around slowly as the bus groaned and bumped its way up the road, I was surprised that no one was staring at me. Everyone was oblivious, wrapped up in their own problems or day dreaming of what they would have for lunch or watch on the television that evening.

Finally crawling to a stop with one last groan of exhaustion, the bus pulled up at my stop and I marched down the aisle, thanked the driver and stepped into the crisp morning air. I knew the prison was a fifteen minute walk away and I walked fast with purpose, puffing away at a cigarette in a false bravado. I had ignored the little voice in my head that morning and refused to pack a hip flask in my handbag. I was determined to be alert and remember everything. This was the start of the new me.

As I turned the corner, the prison suddenly loomed in the distance like a cold grey concrete castle daring me to approach. My heart fluttered as I gazed up at the enormous building, suddenly scared and panicked that he was in there somewhere waiting for me. I lit another cigarette and watched the smoke disappear into the air. I pulled the letter out of my handbag and read it one last time. I read snippets out loud angrily: 'I think it's time for us to put the past behind us', 'I need us to reconcile and have some kind of relationship' and 'I don't want to die without receiving your forgiveness'.

His words lit the fury in me. The self-absorbed egotist wanted to die in peace after everything he'd done. He wanted me to forgive him, as if we'd had some childish feud that could be fixed with a quick apology. I was about to walk through those doors and hand him the closure that he'd decided he needed since falling ill! I was about to let this man die in peace after all the years of torture he had put me through.

I reached inside my handbag and pulled out a photograph that I had refused to look at for several years. It was old and creased from too many years hidden away. My poor sweet Mother, so young, eyes full of such life. She cradled the baby me in her arms, beaming down at me with pride. Her face flashed through my mind. Her eyes from that night. The screams and the blood that saturated the carpet as I stared on in horror, just a child frozen to the spot in disbelief at the evil occurring before my eyes. My Father, young and ugly with anger. The knife in his hand, stabbing and lunging over and over. The muffled sirens. The bright flashing lights as I was carried away to somewhere I do not remember.

I opened my eyes to a new world. I breathed in deeply and kissed my Mothers photograph, making the final decision to not grant him this acquittal. I was happy to leave him to spend his final months alone in a cell, with the realisation that there would be no forgiveness, there would be no blossoming relationship, he was alone, just as I'd been for so many years after what he did. And I would have the closure I'd been so dearly craving all these years. No more drinking myself to oblivion, just a happy peaceful life with the man I loved.

I held my lighter to the letter that contained nothingness and set it alight with one flicker. It warped under the weight of the flames, and contorted into ashes that flew into the air. I dropped the final piece of my Father to the ground and stamped the flames out under my heavy boot. I smiled up at the sun, refusing to take one last look at the place my Father would die.

I walked away.