r/wt/qt (5/25/15) 9:44am – 12:09pm
my father’s birthday party at my childhood home of 7610 cayton rages into the evening with no sign of stopping. old and new friends of his alike flow through our backyard and kitchen like some kind of literally dry, but metaphorically lubricated current. pushed and pulled by their merriment for the occasion and their seemingly bottom-less glasses that consistently seek to be raised and refilled with excuse-driven libations.
“we’re almost out of _______” and “to larry!” can be heard twice over by belligerent voices that echo throughout our home into the bedroom where i sit now documenting this general glimpse of what their evening looks like to an annoyed man-child made slightly less comfortable.
their celebration this evening is nothing out of the ordinary. nothing is particularly annoying or untypical of how i or most anyone would choose to praise another year of one’s successful existence. my ill feelings i believe stem from the lousy company i’ve always felt my father has kept. lousy company now concentrated and reverberated throughout the address i’ve to this point come to call guaranteed solitude. at the very least i’m glad to hear the mob’s incessant hollering grows just as much in slurred sincerity as it does in volume. happy birthday.
i woke to the sound of my mother’s screams growing closer and closer as they finally burst into my bedroom door.
“what did you write?! what did you write!?”
“what? what do you mean? why?” was all i could get out as a response in my startled waking moment.
“your father is dead”, she shouted.
i was completely sobered of my sleep drunkenness, but could not help, but repeat myself. neither could she:
“what did you write?! what did you write!?”, she begged of me.
“just about the get-together last night. that’s it – i promise. where’s dad?”
his body was currently being held for examination as part of the investigation of his own murder. she was telling the truth. he was in fact dead. killed by two men close enough to him that he’d called friends. two men who’d been invited to the celebration, had attended, and apparently were aware of the existence of the website i update in real time my daily questions, comments, concerns, and findings.
the party had moved to sheaux time – a popular south east houston cajun-themed strip club. they shot and killed my father on his way out of the club. two bullets in his back is all it took to exact revenge on me. do i go to work? how could i? moving in and out of weeping with eyes blinded by tears and statuesque roboticism. is this what it is really like to lose someone? how can today be just another day? why am i working on music in the wake of this? simply put how can i justify expressing myself in any medium when that is what ultimately did him in?
i don’t deserve to feel better.