Alfred

It's truly a phenomenon; what we see before death. It's an experience that few have lived to explain (for obvious reasons). But it's like a movie reel, from back when they were in black and white. You see memories that you might have forgotten or pushed in the back of your mind to make room for the new. They may have seemed unimportant at the time, but now you grasp on because they're all you've got at the moment; all that you have left to comfort you in this terrifying state of mind that you can't seem to escape. The reel started to slow its turmoil, pinpointing on one specific moment that I thought I'd never see again.

The park was filled with green trees swaying in the breeze; an atmosphere of lazy, laidback calmness floated along with them. The dirt crunched between the young boy's sneakers and his father's loafers. The child giddily hopped along the worn path, dragging his father as the older man laughed, obnoxiously thick eyebrows scrunching and emerald green eyes twinkled with mirth. A bag was slung over the adults shoulder, making him look even more hunch-backed than he already did as the kid led him to what came to be his favorite place in the world; the baseball diamond.

The field was obviously unkempt as weeds overflowed the grass, but neither of them cared. They were with each other and that was all that mattered. They played for hours; the blue-eyed boy claiming that he was an expert at the game from all the baseball he watched on television. He still found a way to hit the ball, even though his dad probably had the worst pitching known to mankind. Every swing the kid took was filled with so much passion and energy that you could almost see it levitating around him. He was destined for greatness and even his father, who had never held a baseball until this moment, could see it. Pride and joy filled his heart as he watched his son slug the ball past him over and over again until the six year old insisted it was his turn to pitch.

This went on until the blond-haired boy couldn't take it anymore. Exhaustion overtook him as he fell asleep in his father's arms with his head resting on the man's shoulder and his arms dangled limply around his guardian's neck.

On the way home, the duo picked up fast food through a drive thru, despite the British man's resentment towards the creation. He decided that the smile that lit his son's face was worth suffering through the greasy abomination that people referred to as a meal.

They went home to the small apartment they resided in and rented a couple movies. They all featured superheroes by the younger boy's request. His father watched in amusement as his son's eyes blossomed with admiration for the characters on the screen. Eventually they both passed out, cuddled up next to each other on the shabby sofa, not being able to think of a place they'd rather be.

That was my fondest memory with my father. I couldn't think of a happier moment with him. He was always busy, being a single dad and not being able to afford taking a couple days off work. As I got older, I had to spend more and more time at a friend's house or with a nanny because he would never be home enough to do much more than get a few hours of rest. I guess that sparked something inside of me; I started acting rowdy and rebellious, hoping to draw his attention for maybe even a few moments. When I did finally, I was met with his scornful gaze, not the joyous eyes that he once had. I don't know how he reacted with all the other times I caused trouble because he began to ignore me all together. Occasionally he'd visit the hospital if I was in critical condition, but most of the time he'd send a get well card and seldom a bar of chocolate. I was so selfish and now I regret it. I would never get to apologize for being so stupid and self-centered towards the man who worked his ass off day and night just to make sure I had a roof over my head.

Now he'll get a phone call at his work as a page editor for the local news that his good-for-nothing son who's been in and out of the hospital all his life has finally kicked the bucket. I'm sure he won't cry; not at work anyway. He'll politely excuse himself in that patronizing English accent and calmly walk out of his office building with a face that screams I-may-not-look-like-it-but-I-could-mess-you-up. He'll enter the apartment only to find it empty with a couple comic books scattered here and there, a stone cold expression still plastered in his eyes. Picking up books and grumbling to himself of how messy I was, he'd finally realize I won't be coming back. Only then might he cry; otherwise, he'd probably dance on my grave.

There's nothing I can do at this point though. My chest was constricting itself, my ribs caving in against my lungs. The constant beeps began to slow as my vision became blotchy. Seventeen years was by far not enough, but evidently it was all I was going to get.

Strangely enough, in my final moments I thought of the one person I forced out of my life; the one person who I felt understood me. He always had my back whenever I came up with new antics to spite my father. Whenever I got lonely, I'd climb through his window and he'd let me in his home as if I already lived there. I guess we could relate to each other in the way of being ignored; though his invisibility followed him everywhere while mine was restricted only to the boundaries of my home. I broke him though. I know I did. I think it would have been better if we had never met, so I would never have to leave him to deal with the world alone. But no; I was stupid enough to drag him into my problems and issues the first day I saw him in the halls.

I guess fate is just funny in that way.

One moment, you could be rolling through the motions; flying through the timed turmoil we call life when all of a sudden, the motions change and the movements could never adapt to the new way your body worked. Nothing was the way it used to be, but that was okay because the world stopped seeming so dull and repetitive.

I could tell you that this is the story of my epic star-crossed love or that my life was a sad-sob poem that was tragically short. I could tell you, but that would be a load of bullshit now wouldn't it? Frankly, I won't have the time to tell you now, since it appears that my remaining moments are coming to a close.

But I will tell you this much; life's a bitch. Fate will sell you on fake promises and pretty faces. It'll hold you in an iron grasp but claim that it barely pats you. You might meet a person so beautiful and so kind that it makes you think the world isn't such a cruel place. But then you'll have to hurt them, and you can see their face crumbling, causing knives to pierce through your heart.

Life may be a bitch, but it isn't constant. It revolves and spins on an axis. It may take an eternity just to find your own but you will find one. Sometimes, a single soul touches your own in such a way that your world fused with theirs, becoming one.

I'm sorry Matthew. I hope you find peace in this world.

Author's Note: Hey! I just want to thank you for reading this story! I'm planning on making it several chapters long. Anyway, I love constructive criticism so don't be afraid to review! I hope you enjoyed it so far!

-TheOneWhoFought