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 Category:  General Fiction
  Posted: April 7, 2020      Views: 39

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Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
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A different take on the prompt
"My Most Cherrished Gift" by BigPoppaJrock



"Give me twenty. God damn it boy, I said give me twenty! What are you some sort of a fucking pussy? I said give me fucking twenty, you little bitch."

These words are the soundtrack to my nightmares, the nightmares that have tormented me for years. Still to this day I cannot sleep all the way through the night. I thought I would have outgrown my fears, moved on and adjusted. I have not!

I tremble now more than ever; a massive panic attack consumes me. I do not know how I can ever overcome this and become the father you need, my newborn son. How can I give you the world when I can't even escape my past? What kind of life will you have? I am so weak, scared and frightened that I will not be the father, the friend, support you will need.

Here I stand in this hospital room holding you for the first time, knowing this should be one of the happiest, and proudest moments of my life and I am trembling like a scared little girl. All these people standing around staring at me. Your beautiful mom laying there looking lovingly at us. Can they tell I feel scared, or that I feel completely worthless? Can they sense this smile forced onto my face is completely fake? How will your mom ever forgive me little dude? I am going to fuck this up! I am not ready, you deserve so much better, everyone deserves some one better.

My eyes close and I can see my younger self, I can see that kid smiling from ear to ear full of joy and excitement. I was too young to remember when my father left us. I don't have a memory of how hard it was on my mother or how she struggled. My earliest memories involved her new husband, my step-father. He was a large man with a deep booming voice. He had a calm loving side that he showed the rest of the world, however he was so hard and hurtful on me. My mom had just signed me up for little league, I was going to be somebody, an All-Star. I made the mistake of asking him to help me train to be an all-star baseball player. That is where it all started, the boot camp of my life.

He started off making me run sprints, 10-yard dashes then walk 10 yards, then sprint 20 walk 10, sprint 30 and walk 10. He would have me do 5 sets of those before running a mile. Upon completing the mile, I did 10 push-ups, 20 sit-ups, 30 squats, and 40 wall jumps. Then he pulled out his stop watch and had me side shuffle for 2 minutes, followed up with a 5-minute wall squat. At this point my body would give out and I would start to cry in pain. Seeing my tears, his deep dark voice would boom out, "Give me twenty. God damn it boy, I said give me twenty! What are you some sort of a fucking pussy? I said give me fucking twenty, you little bitch."

Luckily mom would get home from work about this time and he would tell me to run and hide. I am not sure what the next course of action would have been if she hadn't gotten home. I feel I could have been beaten, whipped and belittled a lot more. This was our daily routine until that pivotal Saturday afternoon. I had convinced my mom to let me go to play in the woods with my two buddies.

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, blue skies sun shining bright, not a cloud in sight. After gathering up snacks, waters, the machete and the small backpack shovel, we set out on our bikes. Whooping and hollering, yelling and laughing all the way down the road to the trail head cut off. We were going to blaze some new bike trails and start making a BMX race track of our own. I darted off in front of my buddies, wind blowing in my hair, I was free, untouchable, beaming, smiling ear to ear. That is all I can remember about that Saturday.

Apparently when I was crossing the dried-up creek bed, a branch got caught up in my spokes causing my front tire to come to a complete stop. I flipped over the handlebars, flew forward and smacked my face and forehead into the bank. The impact caused me to be knocked unconscious instantly. One of my buddies raced off to get my mom and the other stayed by side. He was cleaning the dirt and debris out of my mouth and nostrils, so I could breathe. Still to this day I am not sure if I properly thanked my buddies for saving my life.

I was flown by helicopter to the hospital and spent the next 5 days in a coma. Once I woke up I had no memory of the accident or anything after turning off the road onto to the trail head. I healed quickly, but ever since then I've had a massive drooling problem. I call it the complete and utter lack of lip control.

The coma slowed down my step dad for a few months, but before long I was right back in boot camp. The routine changed a bit as I told him I no longer had interest in baseball due to the head injury. Each day until I graduated and moved out, my afternoons finished with my body giving out and me crying in pain. Just like clockwork his deep dark voice would boom out, "Give me twenty. God damn it boy, I said give me twenty! What are you some sort of a fucking pussy? I said give me fucking twenty, you little bitch."

We never reached the point of him physically beating me because my mom would show up and I would race off to hide. However, each day there was the thought of that happening and it was extremely terrifying. I never had the strength or the guts to tell my mom about this, even after he died. My mother passed away without ever knowing the pain and terror I grew up in. Until now I have never revealed these deep secrets of my youth.

Here I lay in this hospital bed contemplating my 94 years of life. I am all alone, my wife, your mother son, left us 4 years ago. You have financial stability, some would call filthy rich. A life full of exotic vacations and worldly experiences. You have married a beautiful woman, the love of your life and given us 3 wonderful grandchildren. A storybook life, a fairytale. A lifetime that would make everyone jealous and wishing they were in your shoes. Son you had it all, except for a father who feels he is someone you could be proud of.

Son if you are reading this, it means I did not live long enough for you to make it to see me. You have always been my greatest accomplishment, my most cherished gift. I am so sorry I was not enough. I did the best I could, you see I was damaged and worthless. As I lay here counting the minutes until I die, I can't stop thinking about how I couldn't escape my past. I am so very weak. I am scared and frightened that I failed you. I was not the father, the friend, or the support you needed.

I did fuck this up! I was not ready, you deserved so much better, everyone deserved someone better. Breathing is becoming harder and harder, my chest hurts, I am scared. I was never good enough at being a father to my most loved and cherished gift, I never will.



 

This Sentence Starts The Story contest entry

Author Notes
A story I wrote for the contest, The artwork came for the internet, specifically a Bing Image search. Here is the address:
https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&id=740C2DADD0923C4DBC8FD0FC05C197ACDD3137A1&thid=OIP.EWpAkHg9Esc7Z_M9bzdOfQHaHa&mediaurl=https%3A%2F%2Flive.staticflickr.com%2F7155%2F6695469533_c3582c2064.jpg&exph=500&expw=500&q=Man+Alone&selectedindex=8&ajaxhist=0&vt=0&eim=1,2,6&ccid=EWpAkHg9&simid=607998189973209134&pivotparams=insightsToken%3Dccid_3UaUWuTt*mid_C97B3E04355A917552AE02DA880865F74E901129*simid_608028194570373120*thid_OIP.3UaUWuTtOE8U7zPjSQspAAHaHa&iss=VSI&sim=11
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