I Dreamed About My Dad Last Night
I was visiting my childhood friends house, where they used to live with their Grandma. The house was full of these oddities and antiques, globes and star-charts, trophies, paintings. The rooms were cramped, aged and tepid. Wallpaper peeled and cracked in places and faint webs sat camouflaged in corners. The carpets were ruffled and knots of hair, dust and crumbs lined the combed ridges of the floor.
I went up the stairs and into my friends bedroom. A small box room with mint-green walls and a wooden floor that creaked and bent with each step. Plastic tubs with black lids were tucked against the wall and stacks of papers, cardboard folders and documents sat atop completely undisturbed and gathering dust, while a smattering of worn, fading clothes lay about the room in piles. Patterns of grey, red striped underwear falling onto navy cotton and white synthetics. The curtains were drawn but light still passed faintly through the fabric and a warm smell of musk and moisture hung in the air.
To the side, a small steel frame bed. A yellowed mattress and a duvet with a printed cartoon sheet. A large figure, round and broad, slept and snored beneath.
On the wall above the tubs and paper hung two shelves. The edges of the shelves had chipped away revealing the cork wood inside. Its brackets were rusty and bent. I noted the books that sat on the highest shelf; âIslandâ by Alduous Huxley, a worn and crimped copy of âDuneâ by Frank Herbert, âThe Hobbitâ and âThe Silmarillionâ by J.R.R Tolkien, âThe Light Fantasticâ by Terry Pratchett, and finally, a yellowed and poorly aged copy of âThe Reality Dysfunctionâ by Peter F. Hamilton. I reached for the last book listed and felt its weight in my palms.
I spoke aloud, âI keep meaning to read this. My Dad had the other one, âThe Naked Godâ. Itâs on my windowsill at home.â
The figure behind me was sat up on the edge of the bed. The mattress and frame awkwardly bending beneath his weight. He was wearing faded white trainers with little black and red lines and thick laces. His hairy, stubby knees pointed up and outwardly in an almost squat. On his legs, mustard yellow cargo pants. His large, flabby hands were clasped between his thighs, his thumbs rubbing against one another. His t-shirt was navy, creased and covered in lint, and it folded itself in the creases of his flesh. He was a stout figure, not at all complimented by his posture, and his belly seemed to protrude from his collar to the flat of his upper thigh, and it bloated so much that his otherwise flat shoulders pinched together at his neck. He was short in stature, but his great size and sheer girth gave him a far larger presence, and my curiosity in him was piqued by the discoveries that lay around the room.
âYes, thatâs right, Iâd given him the other copy and Iâd never gotten it backâ, he replied. His face, his voice, were unmistakably attached to my Fathers. The same oval glasses, the crooked, ruffled brow, the stern shape of the eye. He had the same stare when he listened, where his faint thin lips remained shut. His jaw would clench, and the apple in his neck bobbed as he swallowed. His hair was a metallic silver with streaks of black, but it was shaped awkwardly and clumsily. âOh, as if?â I exclaimed, though gently, âItâs not often I meet someone who knew my Dadâ. âWell...â, The man smiled a sort of awkward, hesitant grin, âHe was my half-brother.â
Though I remark upon this manâs similarities to my Dads, the more I spoke to his eye, the more blurry the connection became. The features of this manâs face were far softer, particularly his cheeks and chin, and his eyes were a pale mist green - not chestnut, like my fathers. The man was paler also, and the lines in his face were far sharper, but the flesh of his face was nowhere near as full or warm in colour.
He went on to explain that his mother, my Grandmother, had fallen pregnant by another man some time after his Father had passed away. This man, whose name was David, recalled growing up on the same street with Martin, who is my Father, but they drifted apart some time after their mother passed away. David was saddened to hear of Martinâs passing several years ago, but was relieved that my Father had raised a family.
âYou look so much like himâ I remarked. âYesâ, David replied, âand so do you.â. I felt saddened, âI donât know. I donât see him in me. Maybe itâs because I barely knew him as a person, but I canât feel him there...â I placed my hand on my heart and stared off for a moment. âI mean, Iâm bound to have inherited something from him, but I donât know what. Iâve felt so much resentment towards myself lately, so much anger and frustration. My Dad was so quiet and reserved and he worked so hard, always, and he cared so much about us. He always had everything in order, but Iâm nothing like that. Iâm a mess. I keep hurting people, I keep hurting myself, I keep acting out...â
David let out a smug âHa.â and a smirk hung in his face. His humour at my reflection drew me out of my introspection, and I shot him a look of caution. David grinned proudly. âYou sound just like him.â
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