I Died Three Years Ago


I Died Three Years Ago

By: Katerina R

I died three years ago. My father killed me. He didn’t impale a sharp knife in me or garrote me with a rope until I suffocate to death but I wish he did. I wish he did all those atrocities to me rather than left me hanging. Like a pathetic cat stuck on a tree, only the tree isn’t a tree. It’s an abyss. A void. 

I died three years ago. I remember going home from school and work drained yet happy knowing that I have my mom, my brother and dad with me. The exasperating life on a daily basis for me was somewhat tolerable because, you know, I was complete. I felt secure and safe.  I don’t mind studying and working at the same time if hustling means I get to see my parents’ proud, honored smiles. Oh, believe me, they were. But I guess, no matter how hard you try to keep everything into place, if it’s not meant to be together, it will definitely shatter. 

I died three years ago. There was no funeral, just two grieving eyes and a mourning soul. A lost pair of feet in an unfamiliar city, searching for redemption. I nearly believed I was dead. That everything that I went through and continuously facing is just a trial in hell. It was more consoling to think that I’m in hell than to believe that what had happened was real. My dad was supposed to be my hero like how everybody sees their fathers. He was supposed to be a role model. An embodiment of courage, loyalty, and love. He wasn’t perfect. Nobody is and I understood that. What I don’t comprehend is the fact that someone could be so cruel. All I ever asked was a dad who would finally see us as his home rather than a stop along the way. After his many attempts of turning his back on us, I held on the possibility that he might change one day and choose to stay. He did. For a year and that was it. He left and even had the audacity to blame us for what he did.

I died three years ago. Or maybe 10 or 15 years ago but nobody knew I was dead already. Not even me. 

(Photo courtesy to the owner)

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