Bereavement

A.J. Winter

ajwinterbooks 

I wish I could forget my father's murder.

In this day and age, it was common for someone to get shot or stabbed at night. Especially with the curfew the world's sole leader, The President, instilled. Five o'clock every night, a monotone voice would come across the speakers announcing that curfew was happening. At the top of the hour, the guards on the street would choose their weapon of choice and murder anyone out on the street. It wasn't uncommon to hear gunshots being fired at all hours of the night.

My father, Titus, was someone who I looked up to my entire life. He was a man who, beating all the odds of our world, managed to rise above the rest. My Dad managed to secure himself a well-paying job in The President's New World society. Thinking back on this now, it amazes me how he was able to do this since so many people in the New World lived in slums. They had nothing. My father, he traveled back and forth from place to place for The President to obtain inside knowledge on rebellion camps. He told me stories of these camps and it enthralled me. Some of the stories he told me fascinated me; especially the one he visited in Old Scotland frequently.

The night my father died, I was in the living room in my pajamas. My mum and sister, Holliday, were cleaning up from dinner while I sat by the large windowsill at the front of my house. I used to do this so I could watch for my father come home. I would sit here from about four until he got home. My eyes stayed focused on the street; I could always tell which ones had the farthest to go. The people who were behind schedule were running with perspiration blotting their clothes.

My father came home with more of a run in his step which I remember finding odd. His arms tightly held his worn leather bag that he took everywhere. Dad had it clutched to his chest as he ran to the door, briskly swinging it open and then slamming it shut. I got off the windowsill; I probably had this stupid grin on my face as I looked at him. I was always more than elated that he was home before curfew. He walked up to me, his arm stretched outwards and brought me into a hug, kissing my forehead. My sister might have been there, but she also could have been in the kitchen, I don't really remember him coming home that well.

Holliday must have been there at some point in time because I remember her going off to help Mum finish cleaning up from dinner. My Dad turned to me as soon as she left. His eyes darkened and he clasped his large hand on my shoulder. Since I hadn't quite hit my growth spurt yet, he had to bend at the knee and look into his thirteen-year-old's eyes.

"Jameson, my boy, we need to have a chat," he whispered hurriedly. "We haven't got much time."

As soon as he said that, he took my shoulder and rushed me down the hallway. At thirteen, I stumbled easily and tripped over my untied shoelaces that I tucked into the sides of my trainers (I thought I was cool, okay). So my father hurriedly rushing me down the hallway wasn't ideal for my lanky stature.

"What do you mean?"

"There's no time, son," he opened the door and pushed me through. I stumbled over my laces and made my way to his large desk.

My father's office was a whole different world for me. When I was little, I was never allowed in this room, so the most I ever saw of it was in passing or when Mum would tell me to bring him food or drink. Over the years, I've noticed it become a room of complete and utter clutter. Papers were pinned to the wooden shelves, arrows drawn all the way from one page to another, notes scrawled in the margins of each sheet. My father was working on something. Something big and I had no idea what to expect. He would stay up until two or three in the morning working in his office. Sometimes he would go to work with only a few hours of sleep.

I sat down in the chair and looked up at the papers around me. I've never been invited into his sanctuary, so I took the moment to study my father's space. Some things I've seen before when he brought them home on trips, others he must have acquired before I was around. My father snapped his fingers causing me to look to him.

His brown hair was tousled and looked as if he had been pulling at it all day and the bags beneath his eyes looked as if he'd had a few too many late nights. I know for a fact that this was the case, the night before he never went to bed. I went to bed fairly late; he was still in his office and when I woke up, the light was still glowing beneath his door. I didn't even have to peer inside to know he hadn't moved from his desk chair.

"Son, you have to promise me you won't tell your Mum or sister what I'm about to tell you," he got down on his knees in front of me, grasping my hands. "This is of the most importance, Jameson. Do you understand?"

I nodded, I was afraid of speaking since I had no idea what would come out. The nerves seemed to take hold of me and they clenched at my stomach because it was the most uncomfortable moment I've experienced. My heart hammered in my chest as I waited for my Dad to continue.

"Use your words, Jameson," Dad said as he opened the bag he carried to and from work.

"Yes," I answered, watching him carefully as he began to pull out the papers in his bag. He piled the papers into one neat stack and clamped it together with a large clip. He held it in both of his hands and held it over my lap.

"Jameson, I need you to take these and hide them. You need to keep these safe and when they're gone, you need to read them and study them to remember everything," he said. I wrapped my hands around the sides of the pile. "Once you've remembered everything; burn them."

"Dad—"

"You must do that, Jameson," he told me. "As my last wish."

"I-I understand," I stammered.

I was confused. My father was always a vague man, but this was the most vague I've ever seen him. It was as if he knew something was going to happen. Soon. He was going on like he wouldn't be here in the morning and that worried me. I had never felt true worry before this moment, but he made me feel it.

"Dad, what's going on?" I asked, flipping the edge of the stack of the papers he gave me.

"Go hide those now, Jameson," he instructed. He stood up on his feet. When he looked back down at me, he said, "Now! Go!"

I hurried to my feet and rushed down the hallway towards my bedroom. I heard my mother yell at me for running through the house. I threw my door open and stumbled to the ground. My knees hit the wood floor full force which caused me to let out a hiss of pain. I crawled across the floor to the place where I hid everything. I grabbed the screwdriver I had underneath my bed and began to pry the floorboard open. I moved the board to the side and took Dad's stack of papers, wrapped them in a dirty shirt, I left strew on my floor, and tucked them under the floor right on top of the shining metal sword my father gave me. I looked down at the objects and pulled the floorboard back over the top of the hole and pressed on it until I heard the crack of it snapping back in place.

I ran back down to my father's office. He had a large box of items that he was throwing papers in. He motioned for me to help him. I swallowed the lump in my throat and walked over to him. Dad seemed worried and because he was worried, I worried, too.

"Everything in here is in that stack I gave you. I made copies of everything," Dad said as he continued to move things to the box. "Start taking down the papers on the shelves."

I looked at him. I remember this moment because I really took him in. I always knew my parents had secrets, like most do. My father, however, carried a burden most parents in the New World didn't carry. He lived a life unknown to my whole family. He traveled all around Old Great Britain to work for our bastard dictator, The President. God, I hated that man with a burning passion. Always have, always will.

The moment I looked at my father, I remember something clicking within me. My father knew that he wasn't going to be around for much longer. I'm not quite sure how I knew this, but I didn't like knowing this.

"Jameson," he reminded me. His eyes flickered over to the shelves. I walked over to the shelves to begin removing his papers. I raised my hands to grab the highest, but I clenched my hand and pivoted on my foot.

"When?" I asked, looking him in the eyes.

"What?" he asked. My father seemed shocked by my words.

"When are the guards going to kill you?" I whispered. I looked away from him because I feared that I would begin crying. I was an emotional child, and staring in the face of my father who I knew would be dying was one of the hardest situations I've ever been in. I kept clenching and unclenching my hands, shifting from side to side.

"They're not—"

"You wouldn't be destroying all of this, Dad," I said, interrupting his lie. "When will they kill you?"

"Tonight," he whispered. "Possibly tomorrow. You're not to worry about this, my boy. You're going to go to bed once we're all finished and remember the good times. You hear me?" he walked over to me and put the palm of his hand to the back of my head. He pulled me towards him and kissed my forehead.

"What are they killing you for?"

"It's in the papers, Jameson," he said quietly. "Those papers must be memorized and then burned. If they find you with those papers, you will suffer the same fate as me."

"What if I agree with what you said and I think I should die with you?" I asked. My father grasped my shoulders and held me out at arm's length.

"Jameson, if you agree, then you will work your hardest to do my work," Dad said. "But you have to do it better than me. Now, finish helping me so you can go to bed."

He released his grasp from me and I turned around to face the bookshelf again. I stood on the tips of my toes to reach the papers and began to tear them. The more papers I took down from the shelves, the more real this felt. I truly felt that this was one of the last times I would get to see him alive. In reality, this was the last moment I got to talk to him like this.

I followed my father into the living room in front of the fire. One by one, he began to burn his life's work. His whole life, he spent writing notes down and these pieces of paper were now going up in flames. If this is what knowing what your death will be like, then I don't welcome it.

"What should I do?" I asked, glancing over in his direction.

"You and Marcus should stick together," he told me. "Tell him everything, show him those papers. Tell him and Philippa that I love them as if they were my own. The three of you must always stick together."

I didn't say anything because I knew he was right. Marcus and Philippa, my two best friends, were like siblings to me. My father spent most of his free time—when he wasn't working on these papers—teaching us how to protect ourselves. He got the three of us swords for Christmas in case we needed something to protect ourselves. I realized later on that it was because he knew his death was imminent, and near.

"Does Mum know?" I asked. "Or Holliday?"

"No," he shook his head. "Your mother knows nothing of my work. You mustn't tell her, Jameson. It would break her poor heart even more than it already will. As for your sister, tell her when you feel she is ready, but don't tell her everything. The less people who know the better."

I took in a deep sigh and watched those flickering flames. My father reached over and pat my back a few times. I looked over at him and took another good look at him. I wanted to remember how he looked. I mean, I suppose I could look in a mirror and look at my reflection. I look a little bit like him, but I favor my mum's looks. Our eyes are the same shade of brilliant green, I think that's why I liked my eyes so much.

I pulled my dad into one final hug, squeezing him as hard as I could. I knew that this was the last chance I had to do it. I also knew I was going to be the only one to say goodbye properly. I needed to say what I needed to before they came for him.

"I love you, Dad," I whispered. "You're a better dad than I could have wished for and it sucks that people didn't get a dad like you."

I felt the tears pricking at my eyes. I kicked at the air at the ground, feeling the lump in my throat beginning to swell. Saying these words to my dad weren't easy, but when is it easy to say goodbye to a healthy forty-year-old? His life was ending for no apparent reason.

"I wish we had more time together, Dad," I whispered, my voice cracking. I was afraid to look up at him. "I feel like I still have so much life to learn from you and you're going to be gone. It's not fair because you're the only person who has answers to my questions and knows what I'm going through."

"I know," he nodded. "I wish I could be here longer, too."

"I hate The President for this," I told him, looking up at him. "He did this to me and I'm going to make him pay for it, Dad. I want him to know what he's doing to me because my heart is broken. I'm just grateful that I get to tell you how much I love you because that's one thing he can't take away from me."

"He shouldn't get to take this away from you, Jameson," he said calmly.

"How are you so calm?" I asked, throwing my hands up. "You're going to die and I am stuck with knowing this for however long it takes them. That's not fair, Dad. I'm angry and you should be, too! You should be fighting or fleeing right now!"

"We both know why we can't do that, Jameson," my father said to me. "I am glad that we get this moment, my boy, I really am. But we would all die if we fled. We wouldn't even make it out of our door."

I wanted to throw something or flip the couch over. My stomach was churning at the thought of how they would kill him. The guards who lurked the streets like lone wolves picked their favorite way to kill a person. Some days it was a knife, others it was a gun; it depends on their mood.

"It shouldn't end like this," I said. "You should be able to fight for whatever it is you're dying for."

"Perhaps the reason I'm dying is so a hero can step up, Jameson," he looked at me knowingly. "I love you and that's the only thing that should matter. Come, let's head to bed now. I'll put you to bed."

I didn't bother arguing that I was too old to be put to bed. I wanted to relish in the moments of having him around a little bit longer. I already was in my pajamas, so he didn't have to wait for me to change. I crawled into bed and he helped cover me up. The silence in the room was uncomfortable, unsettling even. I doubt I would get any sleep tonight.

"I'm probably not going to sleep," I mumbled, crossing my arms over my chest.

"I know," he nodded. "You worry too much. Try to sleep as best you can, Jameson. Your mother's going to need you. Marcus and Philippa need you, too."

I took in a deep breath and looked out towards the moon. I didn't even know if I would be okay after it happened. I knew my life was going to be turned upside down. My father seemed to try and play it off as little to nothing, but I knew better. I was the realist between the pair of us.

"Dad," I said, looking back at him. "You'll be proud of me? No matter what I do?"

"Of course, Jameson. Why would you ever doubt that?" he asked, resting his hand on my knee.

"Because I need to know that no matter what I do, you'll be proud of me. I don't want to imagine if you're proud of me or not; I need to know if you'll be proud of me because I tried."

"I'll always be proud of you, Jameson," he assured me. "You're my son and you've got all my knowledge. You and your sister and the things I'm most proud of."

"I hope I'll be as good of a man you are one day," I sighed, looking at him.

"You're already so much better than me, Jameson. When you're a father, you'll understand why I did it. I'd do anything for you and your sister," he leaned over and gave me one final kiss on the forehead. "I love you so much, Jameson. Never forget that."

"I won't, Dad," I promised.

"Do me a favor, will you?"

"What is it?"

"Don't come downstairs if you hear anything."

When he left my room, I thought to myself why would I go downstairs? No one wants to see their parents get taken away, but that wasn't until I was faced with my reality. I stayed wide away, counting the seconds. Twelve thousand six hundred and seven seconds I counted. That's when I heard the trucks outside of our house. The headlights flashed on our house, causing me to get out of bed.

I was walking down the stairs as the door slammed open. Men with black and grey uniforms all came in. My father was in his usual chair with a glass of alcohol in his hand (I'm not sure what kind, he drank what he could come by). My mother was screaming, telling them they weren't to come into the house, we were all here before curfew.

"Shut up or I'll shoot you," one of the guards dressed in grey yelled pointing his gun at her. "Or maybe I'll shoot one of them."

I gulped at my spot from the bottom stair. I felt like I was glued to my spot as I watched them take my father's arms and forcibly lift him from his chair. The guards pushed past me, down the hallway to his office. The guilt of having what they were looking for sunk within me and I knew I had to keep it together.

"There's nothing here!" the guard called from down the hallway. "All gone!

"Where is it?" The guard dressed in black asked, tugging at my father's shirt. "Where are the papers?"

"Dunno what you're talking about," my father's words were slurred from drink. Hopefully this isn't too painful for him, he doesn't deserve a painful death. "I've got nothing to hide."

One of the guards turned to me and began walking over in my direction. My eyes went wide and I couldn't help but stammer backwards, tripping over the bottom stair. The guard that came up to me took hold of my shirt and pulled me forward. My father looked at me with wide eyes because he told me not to come down. He told me to stay in my room and I didn't listen. How could I listen to him?

"Where are the papers, O'Keefe?" The guard was right in my father's face, his brows furrowed. "You've got them somewhere and we need to know where."

"I burned 'em," Dad said. "They're gone and you will never get them. They're going to die with me."

The guard in front of my Dad clenched his hand and took a large swing at my father. I jumped upon the impact. My lip began to quiver; I felt the tears coming because I knew any second they would do it. I bit the side of my cheek to refrain from letting a coughed sob escape from my chest.

In the blink of an eye, my father was jerked to the side as they pulled him out of the house. The guard who had hold of me released me and followed the others hurriedly. As they pushed him out of the house, he looked at each one of us one final time. His eyes met mine and I knew what I had to do. I had to learn every single word he wrote down for me to memorize.

My mother collapsed to the ground, falling into a ball of wet tears on the floor at my sister's feet. Holliday bent over and encased my mother in a hug as they cried together. I looked back over to the door and began to run after the guards. One of them noticed me, hitting one of the others on the arm gently.

Two guns were drawn and pointed at me as I reached the threshold of my house. I braced the frame to keep myself inside the house. I saw what they were doing to him. They shoved him onto his knees on the grass in front of our house. Two guards held him in this position, their hands clamped down on his shoulder.

The world seemed to move at a still; the earth around us was silent save a few birds twittering in the distance. Gusts of wind seemed non-existent. Everything stayed as still as possible and this made me anxious. My green eyes stayed focused on my father and the men before him.

The single black guard raised his arm, his gun in hand. My heart hammered in my chest, pounding at an excruciatingly painful rate. I could faintly hear my mother's loud sobs behind me, but they didn't matter. My focus stayed on my father; his eyes stared straight down the barrel of the gun.

I jumped backward at the sound. I've heard this sound a thousand times before, but it's never affected me before. I didn't even realize I was falling until my knees hit the floor. A stranger's voice echoed from my body as loud sobs and yelling escaped my mouth. My father's body fell limp to the ground; lifeless.

"He's gone," I choked out, holding my arms to my stomach. "You bastards!" I screamed as I stood up. The guards walked away leaving the evidence of their murder. My mother's hands rested on my shoulder, pulling me farther into the house.

"They left him," I looked back to my mother. "They left him there as if he were some animal, Mum."

"I know," she sniffled, brushing my hair out of my face. "Go to the garage and grab those wooden boards, will you?" Mum asked.

"But—"

"Jameson, please do as I say. I'm in no mood to argue," Mum pleaded, raising her hand to me. Her voice cracked as she spoke and it broke my heart a little bit more.

"Okay," I whispered, turning on my heel to go into the attached garage. I didn't quite know what Mum wanted to do with the large boards, but I also knew I wasn't in the right place to be questioning her.

I carried them into the house, and almost immediately, Mum came up to me and took a board from my hand. Silently, she walked three paces to the window and covered the window. She covered every single window with a board, or drew the curtains shut so we didn't have to look at Dad.

Knowing I couldn't go outside for another three to four hours was killing me. My anger for The President rolled in my stomach as I watched my mother board up the house. I knew what I had to do and I was going to do it. I didn't care how long it took, but I was going to get my revenge on The President. 

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