I had the most satisfying dream last night. It wasn’t particularly happy, nor can I remember the exact words I’d used in the conversation that took place, but I have the basics… and with that I would like to display to you, my perfect closure moment.

——————

It’s winter, in Florida. The temperature is a calming 65 degrees and I find myself on the porch of my grandparents house - feet up on the glass tabletop as I look into the clouds above me. In the chair opposite myself, is a man who seems to be on his way to his fifties, balding, and what hair remains on his cheeks, chin, and sides is gray. He looks weathered, though he wears a weak smile on his face as he looks at me.

I turn to the man and ask simply, “How’s life been, Dad?” to which he replies with a shrug.

I shrug as well and look outside at the small blonde girl playing in the grass with a plastic yellow shovel. She’s striking the ground with it as her older brother stands over her shoulder - he seems about eight years old with that same blond hair.

I return my attention to the man, he had just asked me a question that I had missed, I supposed it was about college and how I’ve been for the last couple of years. I reply as honestly as I can: “Easy going.”

He only huffs, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair in a smug way - “Life ain’t ‘easy going’.”

I almost reply “I beg to differ,” but the sound of the small girl outside crying grabs my attention away immediately. I stand and walk outside. My father on the other hand, doesn’t move. I look to my left, the shovel remains on the ground alone in the grass. Turning right I find that both she and her brother had moved towards a tree before the street. Both of them look down with tears in their eyes, the girl yelling her pseudo-words.

I lean in close to the boy and ask: “Shane, why is Ireland crying?”

Through tears and sorrow he manages to mutter, “There’s a dead kitty over there.”

I follow his outstretched finger to the tree, and beneath it is a small tuft of dark gray fur. I walk closer with an arm over my brother’s shoulder, until he stops to pick something off the floor. This thing, happens to be a very badly beaten opossum, and he is holding it up by the tail.

I reach out and take it, examining the scratches carefully, when it suddenly begins to thrash about - biting me once on the thumb to get away and scurry into the bushes across the street. I grip my thumb and chuckle, “Well at least we know the kitten put up a fight.” which I find now to be a very bad statement to a young boy crying over a dead kitten…

Returning my attention to the cat, I tell Shane to console his sister - this being the last time I see them in this fantasy world. I wish I could have placed a face to each of them, rather than witnessing half aware that I couldn’t, as it has been over 5 years now…

I look at this ball of fur, curled up in a ball in the grass, splotches of red over its neck and belly. Fortunately I see no wounds - and the dear kitten is still breathing. A sigh of relief falls over me as I reach out and lift the sleeping feline into my arms where it awakens and looks up at me. There is a scratch across one of its eyes, and a part of its ear had been bitten off but there was no real harm done. The gray ball of fur meows as I take it back to the house.

My father’s response was one I had heard before, little to say that I was expecting it as I walked through the gate. “The hell is that? A cat? Why would you bring that in here? No one is going to want to help it, just leave it out in the grass.”

I glare at him and the kitten fades from this plane of my thought, as a figment of my dream she simply ceases to exist.

“I don’t give a fuck! Why are you such an ass?” I yell as I grip the back of the chair in front of me. “What in God’s name possesses you to be such a dick? Do you realize where that has gotten you in life? I haven’t spoken to you in over 5 years for that reason alone, not to mention your sheer stupidity.”

And here I begin to rave - yelling curses and insults at him all of the sake of telling him off. He doesn’t speak a word.

Mid-way through the insults, my mother appears - and she doesn’t say a word, only looking at my father with sorrow in her eyes. I continue my insults until he turns to look at her and tries to speak. Before he can though, she states: “Those are his words, not mine.” as if he had already accused her.

I throw the chair to the ground and slam my fists on the table, drawing his eyes wide in my direction.
“Don’t you look at her like that, I’m talking to you. You look at ME when I’m talking to you! My mother has nothing to do with this. You are the asshole that had put me through hell to hurt her, had treated me like shit because you don’t know how to be a father, and you are the one who has been a douche enough to think you have the right to say anything demeaning after 5 years of nonexistence. So shut the fuck up and listen.”

My knuckles are white, my face red with anger, there is even a crack in the table from where my fists met glass. But I don’t notice, my attention is focused on the surprised look my father is giving me.

“You sir, are an asshole. You go no where in life. All you’ve managed to do is survive, and piss off the people closest to you. You have not succeeded a single time in all of my life. Even my successes cannot be attributed to you, because they have all happened outside of any of your influences - you denied all of my accomplishments as a child and always said I wasn’t good enough.”

At this point I can feel myself starting to wake up, the dream is coming to an end, and brunch starts in an hour.

“After all the time we haven’t spoken, you choose to attack me the first chance you get. Because of this, you now get to remember me as the person who told you off. You get to remember that I hate you, that there is nothing in my life you haven’t caused me to feel bad about. Those years I spent away from you were the happiest I have ever had. You are a failure. Right now, the only success you’ve ever had is convincing me to never be you. Everything I’ve ever done, has been to out right disprove you.”

I wipe my hand through the air as if I were wiping the steam off a bathroom mirror after a shower.

“You don’t own me. You are nothing to me. You don’t have the right to call me your son - because you have never been a father to me. Do you understand me?”

To this there is a pause. He looks infuriated, and the anger on his face only makes me smile on the inside - I know that I hit him hard. Slowly, his figure starts to fade, until there is nothing left of him at all. I stand up straight and prepare to leave when only a hand reappears in his place, the middle finger extended in hate.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Good bye Eddie.” I state as I begin to wake up, eyes switching between reality and dream like a radio between stations.

At the last moment, I have the chance to see the letters “WTF” printed in Courier New Font, size 15 on the knuckles of the man’s hand.

-Sean O’Brien