Memoirs of the Past

Looking back, I start seeing - “Xander, do you need any help with this problem?” interrupted from my daydream, I hastily retort, “Umm, no it’s fine.” “Are you sure? Explain it to me.” I don’t respond and she takes a seat. I keep my head down from the shame. For the next five minutes I go through pure torture. Heads around me all faced towards me, as I’m talked down to by my teacher. They must all be thinking how idiotic one must be to be explained of this problem.

The mumbling of my teacher is a backdrop to the cars whizzing by behind me. A bridge so high and mighty, many dedicated their lives to it. I walk, as I always do, with music in my ears, chasing my every step. I suddenly stop and peer the view to my right. The scenic lights of Melbourne coupled with the depressing music would make a great ending scene to a movie. Just like that, memoirs of the past flash in my head projecting my insecurities, embarrassments, jealousies, and now; It has all lead up to this moment.

“How was school?” I sit down and untie my shoes, the course material after years of abuse makes my skin feel awkward. “Terrific!” I lie. “Anything exciting happen?” There was obviously absolutely nothing of value to discuss, but the elaborate lie of my social life made up for that. It’s all tiring, though. Everday, I keep up a façade of a kid who is content, though this is so far from reality I’m not even sure what to make up half the time. My mom's nice though, it's just that I don’t think she’ll understand. After a superficial conversation, I escape into the refuge of my room. I sit down in my swivel chair, unbuttoning my shirt. I look up at the wall. A class photo of me and my friends hung in my room. I really miss 1999 more than any other year, my dad was still relevant in my life, and I had classmates I was friends with for most of my life up until then. Of course, it shattered once dad left, going to a private school was out of the question and we moved.

I know mom doesn’t mean a word of what she said, at least that’s what I keep telling myself. I just can’t stand how she keeps defending dad, after everything he’s done. I know what he’d say, “all that matters is family, friends come and go.” I hate him and his hypocrisy, if that was the case then why would he leave me? Why would he, throughout my entire life, tell me all these things if he would not act on what he claims to be good and now, after his disappearance, is tearing up the only relationship left in the life he destroyed. I hate him; forgiving him is out of the question.

The world around me has lit aflame and is choking me, pushing me to the edge. As I force my eyes open flames engulf around me further, the more I stare, the worst it gets. I know what I must do. The question is -

Do I have the strength to do it? I get dressed and brush my teeth, not realising that I had applied so much pressure that I bled. It stung. Just as I let the front door shut behind me, I realise how cruel this is to my mother. I write a letter documenting everything I can in order to muster a justification for an unjustifiable action. I leave the note on the mantle, saying goodbye forever.

I find myself Leaning on the edge of it all, saying goodbye to anyone I had every cared for, and my dad. “It’s funny how you’ve made me do this. An act you consider so disgusting... remember when you said you would never leave us? Funny you lied to us, to me. You know, you never even had the guts to say goodbye, to ensure I wouldn’t obsess over every interaction to find out why. That’s why you don’t deserve a ‘goodbye’. That’s why I hate you, that’s why I’m happy your dead, happy you killed yourself! Happy that you're not here to stop me now.” I punched the concrete slab in front of me throughout the entire monologue. My hand is unrecognisable, yet I feel nothing. I now stand on the ledge, readying myself to leap forward. Just like that, memoirs of the past played in my head. My father and I sneaking out to play foosball in the pub, my mother and father laughing and embracing one another, my dad hugging me when I had a tantrum in Perth Underground. Tears streamed in constant flow down my face.

Trying to not wake my mom, I quietly enter my house and sneak into the refuge of my room. My mom, who had already called 911, was on my bed. I started to muster a lie but found I couldn’t. “Where were you?” We’re both trembling. I found it easier to just tell her the truth, but with every word after the first it got harder and harder and I started to just weep, but I knew she understood. “Oh Xander! Why didn’t you tell me?” She leaped to hug me, and I loved her. I felt happy. I felt warmth.