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When it comes to my birth, all I really know is the day it occurred. As to where it happened I don't know if it was Delaware or Pennsylvania. I do however know that when I was young, before the age of five, I attempted to pop a wheelie on my bike and managed to end the scenario with a scar that lay upon my head to this very day.
I know this occurred before I was five because that was the year that my father went on a hunting trip and the same man never returned. He was shot three times with bird-shot and the pellets would have killed him if not for a single random occurrence that saved his life. He was Smoking. Yes, the cigarette saved my fathers life. His hand was holding the coffin nail up to his lips and shielded his throat from the pellets.
Unfortunately, the gunshots and the resulting surgery combined with the later aneurysm resulted in the man who returned from the incident being a completely different person than the one that left. A man who had trouble communicating, got mad and frustrated because of it. A man who had just one eye. He changed but I was just young enough to know that he was still my father and my memory of the time before the accident was almost non-existent. There was much therapy and many issues in my future because of this. It wasn't long after an incident where he pulled a knife on me because I wouldn't finish my Fruit loops that he and my mother divorced. This led to more issues. In almost no time at all I found myself in a Catholic school and soon after in an Asylum.
My father is now dead. It was ten long years after the accident, the aneurysm, the Divorce, two bouts with cancer the final one, Bone Cancer, the one that did him in. That last year is when I discovered the depths of hate that I could hold in my heart. I loved my father and still do. He was living with his mother in that last year, as he had since the divorce. This poor excuse for a woman however allowed my father to waste away in his bedroom, in a bed stained with his own feces and didn't even go it to talk to him. She kept her son hidden away and tried to turn the whole event into a pity party for herself. Her son, my father. The man who taught me to throw knives, who introduced me to horror movies, who for some reason beyond my comprehension was the best player at the Zelda Nintendo games I have ever seen was allowed to rot in his room alone when his own mother was in the other room or downstairs.
Finally My mother, who again still cared for him as we all did, and her new husband were able to get my father into a masonic hospital to make sure he was finally cared for correctly until the day he died.
I learned a lot about the world from the whole experience with my father. Sometimes fate takes people away from you, sometimes pain and suffering are almost endless. Sometimes even a mother son bond is no better than a small decayed piece of twine. I also learned that even through all of that my fathers humor was there, his kindness, his decency.
Goodness can survive agony, and evil can be anywhere. In both cases, it's people who are the source of it.
