• • • • •

Monday has come... 

Instead of gliding over my skin, the anguish drained through me. It passed through every cell on its way to the earth. I filtered it, yet curiously, I saved what was clean, and it was the dirt that remained.

"Zeus? Don't you want to go to school? It's already ten." 

"I'll go, Ma. Just going to stay in bed a bit. Gonna clear up my mind first." Because if I won't go to school, there's no way my father's hard work will pay off. 

"Okay, son. Don't forget to eat your breakfast, okay?"

"Yeah." And the sound of the door creaking signified it has closed already.

Breakfast bullshit. 

Who wants to eat in this state? My father's dying. Do I look like I have the appetite to eat, huh?

Mother's useless. Father's more than pathetic. Everyone didn't know what happened, they're all fuckers.

All these days I thought he was well and healthy. I thought... I thought I can be with him till the end. It was all a lie. Everything... That smile of his, so genuine yet it was just all a lie. Why does he have to catch that bullshit cancer?

When my emotions deal with me with the "sadness card," tears flow. They say sadness comes before fury, but anger never comes except in direct self-defense, so perhaps I can attribute my inherent passivity with my readiness to cry and feel pain.

"Why does it have to be... my father?"  I sobbed continuously, "Why it does have to be him? I still have a lot of plans to do with him. I prepared a bunch of lists, yet... yet..."

I was feeling a little down. It's difficult to desire something so much yet feel as though it's out of reach. But I always want what I want, and second, best is never acceptable. So that feeling, that emotion, becomes part of my incentive to work harder, to be more creative and intellectual, to persevere in pursuing what my heart and soul desire.

The immensity of my wailing was as if the soul might spill an ocean through the eyes.

As his only son, of course, I'm very wasted when I knew about his illness. Let's say that I'm the most affected one here. 

The sun does not shine in this grief, and birdsong passes as though the music cannot glide through the air as it once did. But, in reality, I'd rather choose violence than keep worrying about my father, who will soon die. Life must go on, right?

He's my idol. He's my father. He saved me from that goddamn business inherit bullshit. He's my everything. He's my fucking all!

I really planned on skipping classes today. I'm still not in the mood to get up, yet I stood up, lifelessly went in front of the punching bag hanging in my room. 

My heart's pounding like crazy as if I totally wanted to beat out of this punching bag. While fiercely standing up, I slowly removed my shirt and let it fall to the ground, exposing my biceps and upper body muscles.

I positioned myself near enough to the bag to strike it after I twisted my hips behind the punch.

"Father... You useless son of a bitch!" Throwing a punch the first time without gloves on my fists, felt satisfying but far enough great. 

I've given up questioning what "ideal" means; in this sadness, I'm not looking for a happier version of myself. I can't remember the last time I reached out to the child-self I once was, the youngster who liked both the sun and the rain. 

To begin my punch again, I sank into the ground with my big toe on the same side of the body as my hitting arm. Allowing the energy from my toe to rise up into my leg, I turned my hips and shoulders to throw another blow.

"FOR ALL THE ILLNESS, WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE A TERMINAL CANCER?!" 

And after that, I threw an unending pounding to this annoying punching bag.

I've never felt so enraged as when I was forced into inactivity against my will. Should I ever see an exit though, even the faintest hint of freedom outside these walls, I'll let my rage spill out all at once. This rage I'm harboring will be my ticket to freedom.

"A FUCKING TERMINAL CANCER!"

All I ever want is for him to show that he really cared about how I feel. Instead, he chose the one that requires the least amount of cognitive power: ignore, shut down, and sulk. As a result, my soul's fiery wrath cools into a frigid smolder of restrained hatred; what should have ended fast becomes a bitter flavor that lingers.

"That bullshit cancer!"

Every scream of mine threw countless punches and heavy cries. I ignored everything around me; sweat, swelling fists, warm weather, since all of it seemed annoying just to think about.

"There is a time for bright colors and a time for dark, wintry colors," while smashing the nearly ruined punching bag, I took small breaks between my strikes, "Every dance has a pause, and every song has a moment of stillness. As a result, this time, so soon after dawn, feels more like a scene from an old movie, one that progresses from these blues to the kind of joy that spreads throughout mind, body, and soul. Apart from this, I feel the earth beneath my feet and raise my head skyward, both rooted in the glorious moment and eager for the spring that is approaching."

I then halted, then laughed after reciting those words like some crazy dude. Those were the words he always made me say when I feel down sometimes. There were times when it's the both of us repeating those lines.

Liar.

Those words were useless.

Why does it have to be that liar who kept me repeating such nonsense? It's been two days since I discovered the truth, and it's amusing to think that I still can't accept that fucking reality... which is him passing someday.

I began to perceive darkness surrounding the lights instead of the other way around, and eventually, my world was devoid of color. They claim there is a rope ladder out of a depression that we can use to climb out of it, but I just can't find the desire to reach for the first rung, much alone try.

"Liar!" I couldn't control my rhythm anymore. All I knew was that it felt so good punching this thing, "Liar! Liar! Liar! FUCKING LIAR!" 

The punching bag seemed to still carry on with these uncontrollable fists of mine. Although it made a huge hole shaping my fists, I ignored it and still continued smashing the bag.

With my rage, I am best ignored and left alone until signs of submissive behavior are displayed. Should I demand recognition of my sorrow I may anticipate his counter-rage - the disdain of last resort to throw me back into my box. If I don't give in, I may expect a long-drawn-out "big freeze" in which he demonstrates how little he needs me, that I am optional in his life. 

"How can I move on to life without you, father?!" 

Before I knew it, tears were pouring down my cheeks as I delivered another feeble fist. There's no agony behind it since it's so weak. It's the first time I've ever thrown a jab as weak as his body.

Yes, father's weak.

He could at least tell us the truth... right when he felt something's already wrong with him. He could at least tell us the truth from the beginning. He could at least do all of that. But because he's too weak, all he did was lie. All he did was act as though everything was fine. He's pretending like a hero when in fact, HE'S NOT!

"Father!" I sobbed, "Father! You piece of trash!"

That burst of rage shielded me from the agony at the time. If I could relive it, I would strive to muster more strength. I failed myself, and him as well.

Moments later, the punching bag collapsed to the ground, and its insides were also messed up, constantly filling the floor.

I huffed, unable to think anything other than my wrath against my father. It felt so satisfying to punch to that extent. It's as if I'm punching him countless times.

I've always enjoyed the flowers and birds, as well as the sunlight and passing clouds. I've always liked the way leaves move in the air and the lovely whispering sound they produce, as though nature, too, enjoys a good discussion. However, the lethargy that began a while ago still hangs over me like a gloomy and frigid shroud. And while I see the swaying petals and twigs outside the window, there is only a growing sadness where there should be a delight. It feels like November rain on my skin, soldering what was once warm within.

Not any longer. Now I simply let it pour, drop by drop, and I feel as if an ocean is crashing down on me instead of rain - as if the years of pain I carefully delayed have all concentrated directly over my head into a cloud huge enough to block the sun. They say it can't rain forever, that there will come a day when it will have to stop when the last drop has dropped. The thing is, I don't care. I'll still be loyal to myself and assist others, but I'm going to stay in the cold, blissfully numb.

Ring...

Ring...

When I noticed the phone vibrating non-stop, I sighed and went to my table to get my phone. I'm so sweaty and exhausted that every drop of my sweat was too heavy and thick.

Upon seeing the registered name on the screen, I knew Franciszek called me for something. 

"Hey, Zeus. Why were you absent earlier? Did you forget that the trial of that said student was today?" he said, heavy breathing.

"..." 

I remained mute, trying to figure out why he was speaking in this manner. He seldom calls me, and when he does, it's a terrible omen.

"Why are you silent?"

"..."

"Anyway, you better not come here to school tomorrow and the following days. I-I mean... it's better for you to drop out immediately. I'm telling you, bro. Just don't come to school. EVER!" a panic and a trembling gust marked on his voice.

"Why is that?" I wondered, glancing down, unsure whether I should be glad or unhappy. I'm filled with rage and remorse right now. Apart from that, I don't sense anything else. If I ever get terrible news from Franciszek, I know I won't be able to take time to emote from it. 

"You didn't know?"

"..."

"W-Well, here's the thing. The emails that were sent to us students last Wednesday night were just a warning... It's to warn out the students, but it's true that a student was chosen, a-and that student was Kenneth Reyes from Class 9-1. And basically, earlier he got his trial earlier which was too brutal for us to see. I'm glad you weren't there to see that."

Kenneth? I heard that motherfucking name before. But I don't give a damn if it was him. Why do I care anyway?

"So?" I coldly asked, getting my shirt which I dropped earlier on the floor. I then proceeded to my bed and wiped off the sweat in every part of my upper body, including my neck and face.

"What do you mean "so"? You really didn't check out your email, did you?"

"..."

"Look. I know it's hard to accept this but... apparently, another student was chosen AGAIN! The sixth student was chosen earlier... a-after Kenneth's trial."

"Two students in a week? That's new."

Of course, it's new. It's also my first time hearing two students getting their trials in a week. But think it this way... I'd rather be in that room than continue seeing this shitty liar dying... 

He's my dad, I know that thing for sure. That's why witnessing him on his deathbed will be too much for me to bear. But what would it do if that person was a liar? Of course, as his only son, I'd be upset to learn that my father had cancer. 

Ha, that's ridiculous. 

Because of that nonsense cancer, all of my dreams with him would be dashed. It's all a bunch of rubbish.

"Well, yeah, I guess. And I need you to keep this a secret. Trust me, all right?" he sounded desperate but I don't care.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

I knew it. It's a bad news. But who cares? I'm just someone who blamed his father for having cancer. I'm just a useless son who cares nothing other than all his father's lies... even though it's not his fault to lie while he's in that state.

"Z-Zeus... buddy..." 

He sounded as though he's at a loss for words. I halted from wiping off my sweat and then had my ears all set for what he would say next.

"The sixth student... is you."