He Won’t Remember

Just like the day before, he wandered into the park. He was going the wrong way. His shopping was going to melt. Who cares? I didn't care!

He really should have gotten someone to cover Julianna's days off. The man is a fucking joke without her. Even with his pathetic, senile mind, he still attempted to count every penny. My Mother, may she rest in peace, didn't get much from her Father. I used to respect him for that. Respect the principle, at least. Forcing your child to know the value of a pound. The thing is, you complete the test. You learn the value, yet, may need help from your wealthy Father. He must have known how hard it was for her to even broach the subject…to ask for help.

Life was not hard for us, don't get me wrong. It just became complicated. An unexpected bill, a shockingly absent father, a miscarriage.

Fuck it, maybe it was not even about the money. It was about love. He didn't fill the financial void with hugs and kisses. The void was a void. Our relationship was empty.

He once turned up to my football match when I was ten or so. I had only recently joined the team, so any familiar face provided much-needed confidence. That's what it is like at that age. The ability to be adventurous demands confidence. He stood on the sidelines- very befitting, and watched on silently as I struggled. Parents of other players shouted words of encouragement, but for me, he was stoic. For himself, he was himself.

At one point, the ball was sent rapidly towards my head as my team defended a corner. Instinctually, I ducked. I was not brave. "What the fuck was that!" I heard him yell. The only emotion he could display was hate. His eyes said more, however. You'd be lucky to see one header in a match back then. We were all scared; I guess he expected me to be a man.

When my Dad left, the hate increased. He reminded my Mother of his initial suspicions regarding my 'cheeky' Father. Being proven correct mattered more than my Mother's well-being. Even when my Mum got sick, he refused to help with the medical bills. "Oh, can Tom not help with the bills? Oh, that's right, he left. Just like I predicted." He was a fucking child!

Eventually, he offered to help, but it was too late by that point. The affordable care my Mum grabbed favoured managing pain over dissecting a cure. In other words, Mum was given drugs.

I first noticed her addiction when I saw the powder on her bedside table. Sadly, I learned snorting her Oxycontin meant the protective cover that slowly releases the drug would dissolve. The hit was so powerful that you could never settle for less once you had tasted it.

I got laid off. Too many missed shifts- I was looking after Mum. I got broken up with. Too many missed dates- I was looking after Mum. I got evicted. I moved in with Mum.

I picked up the habit quickly. I like to say that I was surrounded by it and had no choice. But in reality, I was sad and ill-equipped.

He never attended her funeral. Probably too ashamed, but not for the reasons I would hope for. Was a bare reception, very little family left. The universe had found a way to kill us off one way or the other. My drug dealer turned up, which brought me to tears. "Yea! You know what? Chris is my friend. We are friends." I thought to myself. Chris turned up to get the money I owed him. He smacked me on the side of the head at the first opportunity. Hard enough to cause me pain but soft enough that no one would notice. He was considerate like that. My friend Chris.

I just wanted his money, I thought. On Fridays, he collected his pension. He withdrew it as soon as it reached his account. "The bank is not your friend." Your family are not your family. If he had seen me, I doubt he would have recognised me. The sun invaded his face, but truth be told, he always had a sour look. He sat by the kids' park, just like the day before. He had spent more time in a kids' park those two days than he did throughout my Mother's childhood.

A man like him shouldn't carry cash. Fucking idiot. Anyone could mug him. Anyone could have mugged him. As he stood up, I glanced at my surroundings and booted him in the back. I don't remember what I said, but I know I wasn't quiet. Years of hatred exploded out of me. His head hit the corner of the metal fence surrounding the park. I ran.

He was essentially brain dead for a few weeks before I got to pull the plug. Oh, the grand irony. The three layers of clothes he wore that day, in the sun, prevented any bruising to his back. A stupid old fuck fell and later died.

More people turned up to his funeral than to my Mums. A lot more. He must have been something else to other people. I sat as his friends retold stories, "Who the fuck are they talking about?" I wondered.

The cash I got from him that day got me a few hits. But, the main prize was the will. The funeral worried me, "He better not have given anything to these cunts." Instead, to my astonishment, he gave all his money to an organisation called Minds. They apparently do a lot of work on addiction. His estate was sold off, and, of course, the money was sent on its way towards Minds.

I have no idea who my Grandfather was.