Bloody Christmas
Доверяю данный текст в заботливые, надёжные объятья иностранного языка, видимо, у меня кишка тонка сказать это прямо.
My dad was born in the same day with Jesus Christ (according to the Slavs) - 07.01.10. And it’s bloody Christmas.
As blood scent reached my nostrils I spotted dad’s reflection in the mirror, standing his back to me, mumbling about where-the-hell-his-cell-phone-was. The blood was oozing out of the dreadful red smear his grey hair was stained with on the back of his head. I felt almost slipping out of consciousness as I could not stand sensing blood anymore, at all.
- There’s blood on the back of your head dripping down the collar, - I said calmly watching dad turn to me - his face stained in blood too as if he was smearing it all over his face, then his hands and all the front of his shirt.
It’s been a few minutes since dad came back home after an attempt to lead his woman to her place as she was the last guest left from his 55-th birthday party.
- Yeah, I slipped on ice.
Oh, the ice: every time I try to walk down the fucking street - it’s ice everywhere. And I seriously wonder whether my kin was cursed for something and now has to deal with this shit. Women were definitely cursed - I bet. Dead babies, poverty, wretchedness, traumas, chronic unrequited love, depressions, diseases, alcohol, pain, deaths, deaths, deaths.. Like we’re branded. Well, that’s pretty much Hell.
I chopped off some ice from the fridge and wrapped it in a small dark green towel. I secured it under dads back of the head watching him laying on the couch with a remote control in his hand.
- So good, - he groaned probably feeling the cold fabric against the wound. I felt tears immediately gathering in the corners of my eyes, which happens every time human feels guilty. In the morning, chopping salad for the party, I was thinking about dad owing me his life because he almost took mine once. And every time I remember the reason he wanted to take my life - I want him gone. Right that morning when he turned 55 I thought: “I want him gone. I want him fucking die.” I quickly shook my head because straight thoughts tend to come true when it comes to My World. I just stood there, with a knife in my hand, shaking head. Now I feel so fucking guilty, I feel so much disguise for myself. No church will be able to ever forgive that shit in my head; no church will be able to ever forgive the shit he did to me.
I mean, I don’t hate men, I even still trust them.. I love their cute lovely dicks, their smoking, their voices, their courage and care.. But I just can’t… I can’t take it anymore. I want forgiveness; I want this fucking family curse be gone. Vanish. Disappear. I want the curse to stop here. All my life I’ve been trying to do good to people and here I am - wishing my daddy death and hating myself for that.
- I just fell… - my dad mumbled almost in whisper. - And laid there on ice near home.
- But you’d been out for an hour! - I blinked like a moron a couple of times.
- Yeah. I couldn’t call her. She just.. gone. She couldn’t wait for a few minutes. I never managed to come up with her.
Bitch.
Yeah, at least she doesn’t want him die.
Oh, shut up, split personality.
As dad seemed to take his rest on a couch I locked myself in the bathroom and discarded from all the clothes and the familiar blood scent reached my nose. Not bothering to even look down I stepped under the warm streams of shower water.
It seems like we all bleed along with Jesus Christ today, my dad - traumatized, me - on my period.
My dad was born in the same day with Jesus Christ (according to the Slavs) - 07.01.10. And it’s bloody Christmas.
As blood scent reached my nostrils I spotted dad’s reflection in the mirror, standing his back to me, mumbling about where-the-hell-his-cell-phone-was. The blood was oozing out of the dreadful red smear his grey hair was stained with on the back of his head. I felt almost slipping out of consciousness as I could not stand sensing blood anymore, at all.
- There’s blood on the back of your head dripping down the collar, - I said calmly watching dad turn to me - his face stained in blood too as if he was smearing it all over his face, then his hands and all the front of his shirt.
It’s been a few minutes since dad came back home after an attempt to lead his woman to her place as she was the last guest left from his 55-th birthday party.
- Yeah, I slipped on ice.
Oh, the ice: every time I try to walk down the fucking street - it’s ice everywhere. And I seriously wonder whether my kin was cursed for something and now has to deal with this shit. Women were definitely cursed - I bet. Dead babies, poverty, wretchedness, traumas, chronic unrequited love, depressions, diseases, alcohol, pain, deaths, deaths, deaths.. Like we’re branded. Well, that’s pretty much Hell.
I chopped off some ice from the fridge and wrapped it in a small dark green towel. I secured it under dads back of the head watching him laying on the couch with a remote control in his hand.
- So good, - he groaned probably feeling the cold fabric against the wound. I felt tears immediately gathering in the corners of my eyes, which happens every time human feels guilty. In the morning, chopping salad for the party, I was thinking about dad owing me his life because he almost took mine once. And every time I remember the reason he wanted to take my life - I want him gone. Right that morning when he turned 55 I thought: “I want him gone. I want him fucking die.” I quickly shook my head because straight thoughts tend to come true when it comes to My World. I just stood there, with a knife in my hand, shaking head. Now I feel so fucking guilty, I feel so much disguise for myself. No church will be able to ever forgive that shit in my head; no church will be able to ever forgive the shit he did to me.
I mean, I don’t hate men, I even still trust them.. I love their cute lovely dicks, their smoking, their voices, their courage and care.. But I just can’t… I can’t take it anymore. I want forgiveness; I want this fucking family curse be gone. Vanish. Disappear. I want the curse to stop here. All my life I’ve been trying to do good to people and here I am - wishing my daddy death and hating myself for that.
- I just fell… - my dad mumbled almost in whisper. - And laid there on ice near home.
- But you’d been out for an hour! - I blinked like a moron a couple of times.
- Yeah. I couldn’t call her. She just.. gone. She couldn’t wait for a few minutes. I never managed to come up with her.
Bitch.
Yeah, at least she doesn’t want him die.
Oh, shut up, split personality.
As dad seemed to take his rest on a couch I locked myself in the bathroom and discarded from all the clothes and the familiar blood scent reached my nose. Not bothering to even look down I stepped under the warm streams of shower water.
It seems like we all bleed along with Jesus Christ today, my dad - traumatized, me - on my period.