Predicting One’s Death

          I've always known my father as a noble man. He wasn't violent or full of rage, and everyone that met him would never think of doing him harm. Now that I'm old enough, I know that life loves to fuck with your emotions.

          I remember being in a dream about flying through the clouds when I was jolted from my sleep. I can still hear my thoughts like they were moments ago; My dad is so mad. I stared wide-eyed at him, and his sweat dripped down his pale face. I can feel the worry creep into my bones as questions ran through my mind. He just woke me up, and he said "I got a bad feeling about my life." His voice cracked as I looked up at him, fear choking his throat like a noose on a convict's neck.

          "Dad, everything is fine," I get out of my bed slowly and began to dress myself. "How bout we take you to the hospital and see if we can figure out what's wrong?" I tried to be brave like the doctors told me, but when he picked up and chucked my lava lamp across the room shattering the glass, I lost any sense of calm.

          The visual fear in his face grew, like a roaring thunder it burst from him as he wailed and screamed. "You don't give a damn about me! You've always hated me, you little prick!" His fear transformed into something I hadn't seen from my father before, and for a moment the man standing in front of me no longer resembled the man I called Dad. The phone on my nightstand was inches from my fingers as I raised my other hand between him and I.

          "You need to take your pills Dad, they'll help you calm down," I was absolutely terrified at this point, and I couldn't do anything about it. Not yet anyway. My hand had slipped around the phone and was now slowly pressing the numbers deliberately. My father realized the tone of each button and looked at me with pain, like he had been betrayed.

          "9-1-1? Really?" The next few seconds happened slowly than any other moment in my life. The operator had begun her rehearsed line, the same one that gets said every time I had to call. This time I never got a chance to respond. The man in front of me that had once been my father was drawing a gun from behind his back, tucked away in his waistband in case he ever needed it. My breath caught in my throat as I looked into the barrel. I could have sworn I saw the bullet leave the chamber and pierce my body, but how could I have? By the time I hit the ground, I was unconscious.

          The operator was screaming into the phone, trying to get a response, but a second shot went off. My father's lifeless body slumped against the wall, his brains decorating the walls. That was the last time my dad complained about his life, and the one time he ruined mine.