The Short Drop
The perverted life of mine was created on March 12th 1997, I was just 12 years old then. A normal 12 year old, slowly entering puberty, learning about all those things, sex, girls. Everything was going according to plan; I lived with my family in a small town called Red Falls. We lived on a farm on the outskirts of the town. Everything was great until that night, until that god-forsaken night.
My mother called me into the home; I was sitting on the porch soaking the night breeze. It was a warm night and the sky was clear. Everything seemed peaceful, nothing alarming about what was to happen in just a few minutes. So I entered the house and went up to my mother. She was a fragile yet strong woman with rough black hair. She worked hard every day and I looked up to her a lot.
“The dinner is ready. Go look for your dad in the barn,” she shooed me back outside.
I looked at the table, mash potatoes and meat loaf lied there. Dinner smelled delicious, I tried to put my finger into the potatoes. My mom swatted my hand away.
“Don’t touch the food, go find your father and wash up.”
So I ran outside into the yard and left towards the barn. I yelled, “Dad!” but no one responded. I figured he couldn’t hear me and ran straight into the barn. But what I was greeted upon in the barn was a most vile of scenes. It wasn’t my dad with another woman, neighbor’s daughter or even a goat. All those scenarios I would accept better that this one.
In front of my young little eyes my father hanged. A tight noose around his neck, tied to the central beam of the barn. My dad’s eyes were still open, they almost popped out of his head. Around the corners of his mouth vomit and foam dripped down to the ground. On the ground something even worse lied. A pile of shit, as I looked up I’ve seen a brown snake-like stain coming down my dad’s pants. A trail of shame, a trail of shit. You see, my father killed himself via the short drop, the one you see in westerns. He got up the ladder, tied the unforgiving noose around his neck and kicked the ladder from under his feet. Then he struggled, choked to death, all his muscles in the body contracting in a violent symphony, he choked and gagged until he went limp. So did his bowels, and the contents of his breakfast slid down his leg and unto the floor.
What a shock it was for me, the man I revered all my life, hanging helplessly, dried shit clinging to his leg. He looked like a small child, unable to control his bladder. The most humiliating position one could ever find himself.
I screamed from the top of my lungs, screamed my dad’s name, and called for my mother. She rushed to the barn and saw him. Then we screamed together.
Our cries of disbelief echoed in the dark warm night.
The police and the coroner came pretty fast, it was a small town after all. They got him down, zipped him in a body bag and shipped him into the ambulance. The detective than started the barrage of questions for my mom.
“Did he seem depressed?” He asked, though obviously not interested, thinking about what he’s gonna have for supper.
But mom couldn’t help him, she said she didn’t know of anything. She told him he didn’t have any illnesses, and as far as she was aware everything was fine.
But he kept asking, one question after another. Mom still couldn’t help him. She turned to me and told me to go into the house, she said I should eat something. I’m in shock; I could faint. She rushed me off into the kitchen and went outside again.
I looked at the table and the same food was there; the food that looked so enticing and delicious just and hour ago now looked sad and untasty. I wouldn’t eat if it was the only thing in the world. So I went upstairs to my room. Sat on the bed for a while before succumbing to sleep.
I dreamed that night, nothing nice though. Nightmares, only nightmares.
In a couple of days came the funeral, the house was full. All the family here, everyone dressed in black. Outside, it was fucking hot. One of the hottest march days I remember and everyone was wearing black. Everyone hugged me, asked me how I was holding up, how did I come upon him. They tried to make it sound they cared, but they were just hoping for a gory detail, a first-person recollection. My mother did keep a good eye on me, taking me to her side every time she thought I was overwhelmed.
We drove to the funeral parlor then where they put dad’s coffin on display. I went up to it and I was shocked. It was nothing like I remembered him the dreadful night. His jaw was shut with wire into a perverted peaceful smile, he was cleaned and didn’t smell like shit. I couldn’t believe that was him. No sign of what he had done to me and my mother just a few nights ago remained. Everyone came in and saw this peaceful man. Not the man that just left me and my mother to fend for ourselves without telling us why. Not the man that obviously kept something secret from us, something that made him kill himself.
During the whole funeral, even when they carried him out and buried him, I couldn’t stop thinking about that night. I knew that the image of my father is going to be etched into my mind forever, but not the image of him carrying me on his shoulders when I scored the home run in little-league last summer. Not the image of him working on the tractor, not the image of a great family man. For the rest of my life the first image that comes to mind when I think of dad will be of him, hanging by the neck.
Later on everyone went back to our house and we prayed and ate. On one of the many plates there was a meat loaf and mash potatoes, I wanted to eat them, I really did. They were my favourite food after all. But I just couldn’t. every time I lifted the fork up and tried to take a bite I almost vomited. You remember how certain smells reminds you of something, freshly mowed grass reminded me of playing in the grass at summertime. Smell of burning wax reminded me of candles and birthdays.
And the smell of meat loaf and mash potatoes reminded me of my dad, hanging in the barn. And most importantly it reminded me of my dad’s smell, smell of shit.
And that is the story of how my dad ruined meat loaf and mashed potatoes for the rest of my life.
This is the first chapter of something that is supposed to end up as a novel. I have the whole thing fleshed out, but now I need to write it all.
