My heart deeply sunken into the setting sun… and the light diminishing before my eyes like a candle, not even flickering before blown out.

And the eyes had not been gently put to rest as in death was peaceably kind, instead, a rather horrifying sound, and a splattering and quick unemotional death. No. It was rather a death of anger and cries and screams… shouts… a pellet moving through the air swiftly and deadly.

Those moments last remembered. Those moments needn’t remembered.

And yet still forgotten.

Laid down in sand and buried in. When found again, the pirates will not jubilate but cry with anguish.

Gone away it would be better.

Gone away my dreads had… would it have been better?

My heart at piece, my mind in one, and a life of joyous celebration?

Yes. It would have been… much better.

Life at ease, the sunlight ever dawning upon us, and life greeting me with blissful smiles.

No. It had not. Life was rough as the stripped bark on a tree, sun ever fleeting away, and my life greeting me with tears shed with anger and piercing screams of torture.

Why, had there not been a day when frowns were alien to me?

I believe so.

A day when peace reigned upon us: My father and mother, my sister and me.

A small house and a small life, but held big smiles.

Back then; I actually wondered what my father looked like crying.

A clear vision of that very time I actually asked him.

At a stoplight, he leaned over toward me.

“Daddy, I’ve never seen you cry before.” My little hand traced his face.

He tried.

But failed.

I did not get a glimpse of a frown etched on his face or a single droplet on his cheek.

The light turned green.

We walked across.

Did that question hold bad luck? Had I wished I had never asked, I wished I had been content with my father not crying.

A quite few years later when my brother was born and perhaps two years old did he answer my question.

Below, in the basement, I could hear the shouts and yells of my family.

I stayed put… feeling water trickle down my legs.

And down he came… a shiver sprinting down my spine.

A cold, dark, angry and torn face revealed before me.

My father was crying.

And he shouted at me. He pulled my hair. Furious with me, and my own screams heard.

But it was only the beginning.

The years were stretching ahead of me, and I was pacing them quickly.

Running away… running…

Running… running…

Running….

I saw him cry when he saw me fail school.

I saw him cry when he fought with my older sister.

I saw him cry when she slammed the door in his face and broke his glasses.

I saw him cry when his finger got chopped off.

I saw him cry when he was arrested.

And then I closed my eyes.

I wished he would stop crying… I wished he had not bent down to me and I had asked him the horrible question.

Cry, I had told him. Cry.

And he was crying.

And now I wished he would stop.

So I cried for him instead.

I cried when my siblings died… one… by… one.

I cried when I saw the scar, of both physical and emotional.

If emotional scars were revealed through physical ones… I would be covered with them.

Head to toe.

I would be covered with scars.

Blood.

Anguish.

And tears.

And then I had to ask before my last glimpse of life:

“Why had God made such a thing? Such a thing as misery?”

And gone it was. Leaving me here now as a cold and unlifted soul.