24 September 2012 - 00:45
mea culpaI killed my father. It is a guilt I will carry with me to the grave. I guess it's the one thing I miss about Catholicism, the confessionals. Free counseling, so to speak, plus you get to vent your burdens and share them with the priest. Like that guy that helped Jesus carry the cross. If any of it is real, of course. Maybe none of it is.
Except for my sin. That much is real. I really did kill my father, and I'm not referring to some symbolic bullshit. I mean I literally, physically killed my biological father. Not that he needed much help to get there. He was terminally ill with cirhossis. But I did him in, nonetheless. And it gnaws at my insides that unless I turn myself in to the police, no one will know, no one will ask. Because I was a good child who was attentive to the man who abandoned my sister and I as kids; I was the one who never held a grudge and prayed for his well-being while my sister cursed his existance. But she forgave him in the end, and I murdered him in plain sight. And as he lay in the ER, dying slowly because he was afraid to let life go, because he wanted to live, I held his rapidly cooling hand as his blood pressure dropped, his heart rate slowing down, and waited for the end. Knowing the release it would bring, the never-ending pain I still suffer to this very night. �Lo siento, Papi, lo siento! No te quise matar y te extra�o. Extra�o tu casa y el olor de tu pelo en tus almohadas. El sonido de tu risa y tus ojos p�caros con cejas de gato. Fue mi culpa, fue mi culpa y lo hice sabiendo lo que hac�a. No fue ningun accidente y todos mis yos lo sabemos. No merecimos tu confianza, ni el secreto que murmuraste en nuestro o�do. Ni tu amor torpe e ingenuo. Lo siento por no haberte querido como tu pensabas, como tu querias que te quisiera. Perd�n por ser el mas vil de los traidores, por ser tan mal hijo, tan buen asesino. Esta herida nunca jamas sanar�.