I sit at the top of the stairs of my home looking into my parent’s room. It has been almost four years since the event happened. As I stare into the bedroom, memories of horror and fear come rushing back into my mind. I feel nervous; I don’t want to go into a panic over something that happened so long ago. I stand up and make my way down the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. There is a weight being carried on my shoulders becoming heavier each time gravity is one step closer. This feeling of walking away from the memories frightens me, but what scares me more is what I will find at the bottom of the staircase.
My dad is downstairs. He is whom I fear. I don’t fear him because of anything he has done, as he is no evil being. What I fear is myself hurting him, even for just a moment. Hurting his feelings breaks my heart, I’ve done him wrong and he is in pain. Dad is resilient and can power through any battle that comes his way, but I am not as strong.
Dad is Superman, making it through a horrid tragedy and still trying his best to live every day; but his mind still aches. I watched his body deny him for hours. Watching that moment caused me pain, though I feel guilty for that kind of hurt. My mind didn’t get taken away from me like dads did. I’ve watched him mentally ache every day and none of it is his fault. When we get into an argument and anger comes over me, I have become the demon who stole his life. He gets frustrated and tells me everything about how he feels and an overwhelming amount of guilt swarms me like a thousand bees. My thoughts become the honey and the bees are my vices. They sting and pierce into my skin. It hurts. Everything hurts. But I would rather take on all of the pain than seeing my dad struggle another day.