For Him

Big Fishes' Carnival at The Lake - For Him

I stared at the painting, the piece of art I’ve worked on for months.

It was a simple piece, really. It was meant for my father, the person I’ve been looking up to for all my life. He wasn’t the perfect father that I imagined; in fact, there were many of him that I disliked, but through the years together we overcame the disputes between us and become a truly bonded father-daughter pair for a while. While I do love him because he’s my father, I love him more because of himself, him as a person: his way of talking, his care for animals, his impartial considerations, his commendable personality for a person who’ve lost the love of his life.

My childhood wasn’t easy, but it was fun. From time to time we would have a camping session out in the jungle, where I could explore more about the animal world. At daytime my father would let me see a beautiful natural scenery with animals grazing or merely going through their mundane life, and little me would persistently try to engrave the exact same beauty to a piece of paper. It was never good, but dad would always say that he loved it. I always thought it was worth the effort, simply because he loved it. At nighttime we would dance around the campfire and sing a song we never got tired of. To me, he was a good father.

And, sad to say, I wasn’t always a good daughter.

We have spent years together as a family, although motherless, and gone through tribulations a family of the discriminated might face in today’s world: people framing us for our money, society forcing us to move constantly, for we were never really accepted anywhere. After all that, it was stupid of me to leave him just because I had a crush on somebody I just met. Looking back now, I didn’t even think that I liked the guy that much. I guess a girl’s heart is just too innocent.

From then on, we lived separately, me being unable to see him after all that happened. Only when I heard that he was a victim of a bomb attack, did I realize that my love for him shouldn’t end the way it was about to. Shame on me, only then did I try to meet him again, and god it was painful to see him lying on a white bed, covered in a white blanket with white light illuminating the room. He lost his hearing, and he was thankful for that, since he couldn’t hear the sound of me crying in apology and sorrow in front of him. He said it would be too painful for him to hear.

I wanted to tell him that I’m sorry, that I wanted our time together back, that I was stupid and should be punished for what I’ve done. I wanted to tell him that we could go out camping together again, that he could wait for my paintings and dance with me around the fire. That’s why I’ve been working on this painting: the piece that I hope would convey such message to him. I’ve neglected my job interviews, skipped enough meals to make me immune to hunger, and spent so much on trials and errors just to draw the perfect piece I could come up with. After months, it was finally decent enough for me to show him. I wanted to show him and only him.

So I stared at my painting, the one where my father and I danced around the fire under the starry sky. Then I looked up to see the fire dancing around me, the windows showing the exact night sky as my painting does. When the pillar of flame fell just by my side, scratching the sleeve of my shirt and sending, ironically, a dreary chill down my spine, I regained my senses and rushed.

I remembered exactly where to turn, where to take the stairs, where to jump and where my father’s room was. He was weak, he was deaf, he couldn’t make it out alive without me. I rushed, while constantly thanking god for protecting me from the engulfing flame. My father’s room was just at the end of the corridor, and I was about to do a final sprint when I heard a weak cry from the door beside me.

I kicked the door to open it as fast as I could, and it wasn’t one of my best bet. A girl was screaming inside; her tears couldn’t cool her down from the heat. The smoke that I’ve breathed while sprinting took its tool to gave me a headache, but I knew that I should focus on the girl in front of me. A medicine shelf fell on her legs, and she couldn’t move anywhere, so I tried to lift the shelf on one hand, without prevailing. As the merciless flame crept up the shelf, I put the painting on the floor, and lifted the shelf. The girl pulled her trampled leg fast enough just before I hit my limit and dropped the shelf. I asked if she were okay, and remembered that I always asked these kind of stupid questions. She obviously couldn’t run.

I instinctively took my painting and carried her out of the hospital, for a moment forgetting about all the deals which brought me here in the first place. Screams of fear swallowed in the sound of the fire eating away whatever was in its way pierced through my ear as I ran to the exit, or at least, that was the plan before an explosion threw us astray from our path.

For a moment I understand how my father feels, how he tried to live without hearing anything, for I was temporarily deaf from the explosion. As I tried to stand up, I realized that both the girl and the painting wasn’t with me. My reaction was to look for the painting and alas, I found it, as well as the flames slowly crawling to it. I tried to reach it, but another explosion and a girl’s scream shifted my focus.

A pillar falling. A girl below. A moment to react.

It was hot. It was stupid. The exit wasn’t that far, and if she tried to drag her body she could reach there herself, while I tried to hold the pillar so that it would not squash me. So I shouted ‘Go!’ and she disappeared, only the pain and the flame accompanying me in the empty, smoky room. I had myself lowered down as the pillar was too heavy, and the heat didn’t help at all. I stared at the painting, when the fire burnt the campfire, and pondered why would the world crush the fate of a girl who had regretted, repented and apologized. The painting was soon no more, and so was my strength. I regretted not being able to say a proper farewell.

Goodbye, dad.