Father's Failure

• Abdulrehman Ahmad, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2018

“You were always...a failure, son” was the last words spoken by father. His last breath was drawn on his gracious deathbed, his last moments, inside that desolate hospital room.

Tears rolled from my scarred cheeks onto my blue lips. “Yes, father-I was always a failure. I’m… just so sorry. I…couldn’t be there for you.” The graveyard was left mysterious against the shining lights of the hospital, where father and I’s eyes had met for the last time. I couldn’t let go of this memory… it happened thirty years ago, yet…it feels as if it were yesterday.

After mother passed, father became depressed, alcoholic, violent and desperate. Deep inside, I knew he was dying. Dying from the same disease that plagued the family tree. He watched his own father die, and such, I did too.

It began to rain. Just as it was raining when he whispered the word “failure” into my innocent ears.

I lay down beside the faded flowers I bought. The stone tombstone was cold against my fragile face. The dirt - sticky with mud. “I’m sorry father.”

These past few days, my skin had become pale, my face -torn and my hands left shaking. I was dying, just as father was. The syringe I held within these frightened hands bounced the luminous liquid inside. I had the cure. “Hear that dad? I made the cure. But-” I broke up into despair “but, you’re dead. I couldn’t save you… I’m pathetic. I failed.”

Up until now, I realised the grave next to father’s was empty. It was freshly dug. Another victim. Another soul biting the dust of death. I hope it’s my grave. I’ve always wanted to die next to father-even if I failed him, I could still be with him for eternity.

Sealed with determination, I decided not inject myself with the cure. What was the point? Why shall I live longer? It’s pointless… I was a failure.

The rain halted. I couldn’t feel it dropping anymore. Instead, a warm hand gently touching my shoulder. Filled with confusion, I turned around and there stood a small boy, holding the most magnificent umbrella I ever saw.

“Wh-Who are you…?” I stuttered but he didn’t say a word. He dropped the umbrella, and rushed towards me, hugging me tightly. I heard his soft tears and felt his arms as he whispered “thanks for…saving my life.” He must have had the disease too. But. He survived-because of me...?

“I’m Timmy Midlow,” he said, as he pointed to the same gravestone next to fathers. There were the words, carved in solid, elegant stone: Timmy Midlow, aged 8, June 18th, 1995. He was going to die today. But, I saved him. I didn’t…fail him?

I broke into tears of…happiness. Something I hadn’t thought existed after mother’s passing. I held out the syringe, with its oozing, glowing liquid inside, stretched my arm, folded my sleeves and injected it into my skin.

Life is worth living to save others.

Even I was father’s failure.