Dads Funeral

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Dad was far from being a saint. We all are. Today is the day we say our last goodbye. And I show you how much of a trainwreck this "family" really is.

Submitted: July 17, 2017

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Submitted: July 17, 2017



I knew something was wrong when Dad didn´t call to wish me a happy birthday.

We weren´t very close anymore. Not after he moved in and continued to walk down the path of self destruction. Paved with cheap vodka. Calling me on my birthday was one of the few opportunities he used to stay sober, at least until noon.

Sometimes, when lonelyness and boredom took over, he called me in the middle of the night for a inaudible barrage of drunken gibberish and korsakovesc nonsense. He wasn´t walking the road to an early grave anymore, he was running.

Dad was as far from being a saint as we all are. Who is without sin shall toss the first stone.

But I never wanted a saint, I wanted a father and Dad lived up to the task without complaining.

We had a roof over our heads, we had clean clothes and food on the table. Our bills were paid and we never had any debt. Money was tight, but Dad managed it from time to time to hand over a little cash. He handled all this.

I was the only one who saw it comming.

It all began long before the evil witch of the west kicked him out of his own home. The home he had broken his back to pay for. Overtime. Weekends. 65 vacation days he never took.

She said she couldn´t take it anymore. To much of a burden.

All that little lies people tell themselves.

It took the psychotic maniac he was married to two days, to flush twentytwo years down the drain.

As if it never happened.

There was a lot of shit that never happened but is all to real.

The day she broke my nose with an iron, just because i bombed a maths test and came home with an F. Never happened.

As she had beaten my brother for two hours straight with a leather belt. Must have dreamed that.

Two destroyed childhoods full of fear, verbal, emotional and physical abuse? Never happened.

My body is covered in scars that proof what never happened.

My brother is deaf in the left ear because of something that never happened.

Dad started drinking because of shit that never happened. And because shit that very happened but he did never tell us about. I´m not mad at him. We all would go the easy way out if we had to cut suiciders off of ropes and fight junkies in the day and come home to Josephine Stalin and two traumatized kids in the evening.

He wasn´t weak. He just didn´t have the power to keep his fists up.

Cops told me he was dead already for about six weeks as they kicked down the door of the landfill he lived in. One room appartment in an dirty shithole in a bad part of the city. Dog shit in the streets and the obligatory gang related shooting on the weekends.

In the report is a line that says that Dads body was partly mummyfied as the coroner put him in the body bag. The effect of dehydration. The same effeckt that keeps jerky from spoiling.

>>He didn´t suffer.<< The court medic told us. A straight up lie. Dad suffered.

He suffered a whole fucking lot.

Noone could take it, and just few could keep up fighting for as long as he did.

He only lied to me once. As he promised to go to rehab. I was naive enough to believe him.

I should have dragged him to the hospital. I should have called EMR. It´s to late for the things I should have done.

Regret has the nasty habit to show up after shit happened.

I´m guilty and innocent aswell. Just don´t know how much of each. 50-50? 30-70? 0-100?

I´m not mad at Dad for lying. I´m fucking mad at myself for believing.

And now we are here. At Dads Funeral. Nicely clothed in black and dark grey.

The creme-de-la-creme of people who have let him down. The high society of shit.

My aunt howls like a wounded wolf as the mortician carries in Dads urn.

Fourtynine years of happyiness, sadness, hopes, dreams, laughter, despair and the question why we all have let him down. He only was onehundredfifteen pounds as he died. Onehundredfifteen pounds of flesh, bones, muscles, skin and blood. Cremated to a pile of ashes that fit in an stone salt urn as big as a carton full of milk.

Grey, dusty flakes and unburned bone fragments that have been my father.

And all of this shit is my fucking fault. Noone else is to blame. Not preventing shit from hitting the fan is the same thing as throwing it myself. I could aswell have put a rope around his neck and throw him of a balcony.

My aunt screams on top of her lungs. Could someone please tell her to shut the fuck up?

Bitch didn´t gave two shits about him as he was still alive and now it´s a fucking tragedy to her.

Sad fact is that she only lived a twenty minutes walk away from her brother and never found time to cook his meals or do his laundry or get him to a doctor. Twenty short minutes. An episode of The Simpsons if you cut out the advertising. To far to save her brother from the abyss.

Zip it, bitch. You will not get an oscar. To old, to ugly, total lack of talent. Noone is buying it.

You failed as a actor and you totally fucked up as sister.


The evil witch of the west stares at the urn. No emotions. No reaction. No tears for the man she was married to for over twenty years. The only reason she didn´t divorce him was the annual tax refund.

She didn´t love him anymore. Chances are, she never did.

She just sits there, with a stone cold stare and a non moving face. Blinking from time to time just to show some kind of human movement.

I knew she is a cold hearted spawn of evil. Right now her heart is a snow storm in fucking siberia.

I never talked to her again after the day I moved out of her suburban gulag. And I will never talk to her as soon as this funeral is over.


Grandma uses the opportunity to look down on us. The worthless peasents. The turd under her gucci heels. She thinks of herself as our matriarch, but she is just a bitter old hag who has driven her claws into the insane illusion to be better than the rest of us. Upper middle class white trash.

Grandma told her so called friends Dad died from a lung infection. Because admitting that her son was an alcoholic would be to embarrassing for her.

There are no alcoholics in our family. And again, shit that never happened.

My brother taps on my shoulder and hands me his flask. He looks like he has been drinking for the last four or five days. I take a mouthfull of tequila and ignore the fact that I´ve quit drinking liquor two years ago. Desperate times need desperate actions.

>>There is the wrong person in that urn.<< He whispers.

>>There are a lot of wrong people here, who are not in that urn.<< I don´t whisper. I don´t give a shit anymore.


And then there is Grandpa. Good old goldhearted Grandpa. The only one here that breaks my heart to see. Grandpa was a farmer for all his life. He might never have been the sharpest knife in the drawer but the happiest. There has never been a day when Grandpa was in a bad mood. Always smiling, always happy, always there if you needed him.

Now he is a broken man. Joy has left him. Reality curbstomped his happiness with steel toed Doc Martens and left what was left of it as a bloddy stain on a road paved with sadness. He cries real tears. He doesn´t understand it. Parents should not outlive thier children. God made a mistake and took the wrong man. God didn´t make a mistake.

God just enjoys to see you suffer..


Aunty is still howling and screaming her show. I feel the urge to punch her out just to finally shut her up. Fucking hypocrite bitch. Save your fake crocodile tears for the next funeral you are not sad about.

We lay Dad down to his final rest. My last goodbye is a tearsoaked mist of happy memories.

So long old man. See you on the other side. You will be missed.

Someone plays music as the little grave fills up handfull after handfull of cold wet earth.

Love Wings played on a pan flute. You gotta be shitting me.

An alpaca jockey is the soundtrack of the saddest moment of my life?



Six month have passed. The world kept turning. The sun kept shining. Life goes on for all of us.

I decided to not celebrate my birthday anymore. What for? One year closer to death.

The mailman hands over a letter. It is from my aunts advocate. She demands half of the money Dad has left us.

And they always call me the low hanging branch of the family tree.

We really did put the wrong person to rest.


© Copyright 2018 matt dogg. All rights reserved.

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