When It Comes To You |j.k

30: 完美的人生

Six months went by at the blink of an eye. Six dreadful months.

I had spent these months at the company, learning about the business and everyday was more draining than the one before. And when I came home, my father would tell me even more things, things that he claimed I had to know.

He said that if I didn't inherit the company, we might as well shut everything down.

"I'm too young for this, to be responsible for so many lives, to be responsible for a whole company. I can't do it."

"If it's not you now, we will lose this company. There are people here that want your spot, and if they do get it, they won't give it back. This company has our last name, don't let anyone change that."

It was his dying wish. I had to fulfill it.

Was.

"I'm still a teenager, I don't want my life to be set on a track so soon! This isn't what I want, this is what you want!"

"I'm dying, son. You think you have it bad? Everyone suffers. I'm dying here, why won't you understand that there isn't a second choice?!"

"That's right! You'll die! You'll leave me here, all alone, just like how you've always been with me. I'm always alone, doing it all on my own. Enduring it all on my own! And even with your last breaths, you're not acting like my fucking father!"

"I'm handing my company to you! I put all my blood and sweat went into this. I'm leaving you with everything I have, if you can't appreciate that, that's not my problem!"

"No you're not! You're leaving me all alone to face the media. Don't act like you don't know what will happen to me. They think of me as a murderer! They think I'm fucking sick in my head. And now I'm handling a company? Do you know what they'll say about me? How people at the company will treat me? You're leaving me with fucking shit! Leaving me with trash that I'm supposed to clean all on my own!"

That was our last conversation. It ended with hoarse throats and eyes full of tears. It was tragic, just like our relationship.

So here I am, in a black suit, standing next to my father's body, shaking the hands of people that truthfully, are only here to celebrate our loss. They've wanted him dead for years. Wanted his company, his money, his spot. And now all that's left to deal with is his young clueless son. Why would they grieve?

They hold solemn faces with greed in their eyes.

I try not to cry in front of them.

"How could you fucking leave me?!"

I hugged the casket, knuckles whitening. My mother didn't know what to do. She just sat weakly on the floor with her tears drowning her.

"You haven't made up for anything yet! You haven't taken me out yet, haven't played with me yet! What about going around the country on a road trip? Or having a game of basketball together? Or visiting the art gallery? What about attending my graduation because you fucking missed all my other ones?! What about spending time with me, and giving me a father to love for once?!"

The casket was getting wet. My eyes were the sky. And it was pouring.

"You're not fucking done yet, who said you could leave?!"

I thought that I had cried out all my tears then, I thought that I had no more tears to shed.

I was wrong.

A teardrop trickles down my cheek. And one of the bastards hands me a handkerchief. I take it and wipe my skin dry.

The reception ended soon. Mother was called to look at a few forms and I took the chance to exit the building. Everybody there was crying, or losing control somehow. You can tell how long it's been since the death of a loved one by how these people act. If they're expressionless you know it's been a while. They've already grown numb.

The atmosphere was too heavy in there. I had to leave.

Sitting on the bench outside, I cranked my head up and took a deep breath. The air was much better, but it didn't help my mood much.

It hurts, really.

Most people are mourning over these memories that they've lost. They keep on replaying these scenes from their lives as if to attempt to save it from leaving them. But it's all false hope. It's all already long gone. They desperately hold onto these memories and replay them religiously just like how one would with their favourite songs.

They mourn because of the memories they lost, and the memories they could've made but were not lucky enough to.

I cry because of lack there of.

There was so much that we could've, should've done together. So many things that I never experienced with him.

Maybe he treasured my company too. Maybe he too, wished for us to have more memories to grasp onto. Maybe he too, loved me like I had with him, despite my hate towards his ways.

He disliked most things that he knew about me. My need for freedom, and eagerness for affection. My difference in passion and dreams.

But would he, like me, still love his son unconditionally, and willingly?

I'll never know.

I think today, of all days, I've never needed her more. Shamefully, I pulled my phone out from my pocket.

I hesitated, with my thumb wavering over Aera's name in my contacts. It was a pure accident, my muscles failed me and before I could even react, the screen changed and there it was.

Calling from home..

Fucking idiot.

I put it up to my ears, frantic and distraught. It continues to ring and despite this being an accident, I start anticipating to hear her voice. Even if her words hurt me, I wouldn't mind. No matter what she says, I'd wish to hear her voice.

But I don't hear it.

Instead the robotic voice greets me mockingly.

Leave a message after the tone.

I'm an impulsive loser. I shouldn't have called.

Angrily, I turn my phone off and shove it back down my dress pants.

It returns, loneliness, without being welcomed whatsoever. I look up to the sky, and a raindrop attacks my eyeball.

"Damn it." I grit pathetically, rubbing my eye with my hand, which also gets love from the rain.

Soon it starts pouring, and my suit soaks up the rain like a sponge, not letting a single drop escape.

My hair sticks to my forehead and covers my sight. I open my mouth to swear once more, but rain just attacks my tongue to shut me up.

Splendid.

My life, is fucking splendid.