Birthday Present

What is wrong with the idea of killing people? I want to kill my dad. Since I know he is not the real one, I am getting used to this idea more and more I will set him free from being “him”. Which child would want his father drunk on his birthday?

The bus stopped and I got off. There stands a mother holding her son’s hand, whispering something, a song maybe… I never know that feeling.

Government took me from my dad when mom died, because he couldn’t take care of me. I was given back when I was twelve. It’s been four years, with a drunk father, no happiness. I will create my own happiness.

Tomorrow is his birthday.

I open the door and get in. He yells:

“Who izz that?!”

Though he knows no one comes here but me, he is still shouting.

“It’s Reynold.”

“Get mea a beear you useless weirdo!”

Yes, I hate him more. I will put bow on the present.

It will be an interesting day for me. I’m not depressed. Actually I am quite excited. I will ask him why mom died. How did she die? He will have enough time to tell the truth.

Time is floating like a river. I remember things. He was never kind to me. I always felt that something was wrong with the idea of “us”, or “father” or “son”. When he buys food he buys it for himself, like he doesn’t want to accept I am alive. I always eat alone. I eat what I find. I was told just to get beers. He wouldn’t talk to me even when he was drunk. He would whisper to himself quietly. I have heard words like “oh no”, “tell me”. When he says this he looks sad and cries. Then he would fall asleep.

Things are going well. The bottle of wine is ready with poison in it. My teacher always says “Why do you stand so calm? Go and play.” He tried everything. He forced me to compete in sporty or musical things. I became successful but I wasn’t excited or happy. When I failed I never felt bad. No, nothing. Am I human?

The week before this I found out he is not my biological father. I read a letter which was sent to “dad”! He was being paid every month so this is why he keeps me with him.

There he is. I hear the footsteps. He is in. He comes and sits down in his armchair. Now or later, it is the same. Why not now?

“Happy birthday, father.”


Like an animal. Why doesn’t he talk? After all this time I deserve to know. First, the present.

“For you.”

He takes it. He looks cold, numb.

“I know you are not my real father.”

He seemed to be surprised for just a few seconds. Then he started to look around for something to open the wine.

“How did she die?”

He froze. Now I started to feel something very very deep in my heart. I couldn’t name it since I don’t “feel” much. I sense now, he will talk. Our first and last conversation.

“She was young and beautiful, full of life. When we met, I fell in love with her. She asked me to marry her. I was shocked. I said yes at once. I didn’t think much. I should have thought about it... Why would she want to marry a stranger? After two months it was clear. She was pregnant. She looked at me with eyes of sorrow. They were asking for silence, not to question her. So that’s what I did. While you were born, she was gone. She never spoke about you. She and I were like strangers. Now you and I are strangers. I don’t know you.”

He opened the wine. He looked at me straight. He drank a mouthful. I walked through the door,

“In another world stranger…”

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