My Daughter

"Should I hold your hand?"
"No dad, I'm too old for that."
"I'm sorry. I just don't want to see you get hurt."
"I'm almost 11 dad. I'm not going to run off into a busy street and get hit by some car."
"I know, but I just...never mind. Let's just go get that dress you and your mom found."

We walked into the store and found the young girls department. It wasn't hard. She already knew where it was.

"Dad- it's over here!"

She had already picked out her dress. Almost 11 years old. The time had flown by so fast, and it wasn't any easier now than it was when she was younger. My only daughter. My only child. How hard it is to watch them grow, until you have to give them up.

"This is the one mom and me found last week. You think it looks good?"

I don't know dresses. I don't know how to do hair. I know how to throw a baseball and play video games. I know how to set up her digital camera so it works OK and she can upload her pictures for all her friends to see. I do the best I can.

"Mom said it looks good on me, but I don't know. Becky has a similar dress and a lot of the girls think it's ugly."

Maybe my best isn't the best one can do, but I sure try. It's just hard to talk with her. Hard to picture he walking down an aisle. I don't want her to meet a boy and do the things I wanted to do when I was younger. But it's only a few years off. She's already starting puberty.

"You care if we go to another store? I think I found one there I like a little better."

And then what? Then she'll be graduating high school. Hopefully. Hopefully she doesn't wind up like one of those pregnant girls on TV. She's a smart girl, but I know how these things work. You can be smart but make mistakes.

"I think they still have this really pretty one I saw. Mom and me went in here last week too, but mom thought it was too expensive. I know you don't care though, right dad?"

I want the best for her. I don't want to let her go, but what else can I do? I've already seen the girls and boys she's hanging out with. I don't like them. They're not going to do much good for her. Maybe she'll have fun, but I want her to do more than just have fun the rest of her life.

"It's right over here- at least it was. I don't see it anymore. I'll go ask that clerk if she's seen it."

I want her to achieve greatness. I want her to be more than I ever could. Than her mother ever could. But what am I to do? I can barely do what I'm doing now. I can barely say hi to her.

"The clerk lady said they don't have anymore. Which is probably good because that means some other girls bought them and might be wearing them and I don't wanna wear the same thing they're wearing. Can we try another store? It's still in the mall."

She is my daughter though. We have a lot in common- she takes after my religion and watches what I watch on TV. And she has the most beautiful voice when she sings. I used to play guitar, but that was in high school. She's already playing better than I could.

"None of these dresses look any good and I'm tired and hungry. Can we go get pizza?"

She has no cares in the world. Maybe I should be more like her- not worrying about her. But I do. That's all I do. I know when she's sad and happy. It radiates from her. I just wish I had more time with her.

"I think we can go to that Italian place, they have really good pizza- it's seriously the best. You care if we go buy that dress first?"

Maybe if I got closer with her she wouldn't bother with the people she hangs out with. Some are OK, but some I just can't stand. And I barely see her with them. But when I do, it makes me sick that she actually enjoys hanging with them. Sometimes I wish she'd hang out with me, but I understand. She wouldn't want to hang out with an old timer like myself.

"This pizza is delicious, isn't it dad?"

I know she cares. But I sometimes if I care too much about her. I sometimes wonder if I should just start letting go now. But I can't. She's my daughter. I can't just let it go.

"I don't think mom would want you inside and I have some homework I still need to do. Thanks dad for taking me to get my dress for the dance."

She hugs me and gets out of the car. She knows I love her. I don't need to say it. She knows. And I know I have to let her go. She opens the door to the house I used to live in and smiles and waves back at me. She goes inside and I sit for a moment.

I have to say goodbye. I have to let her go. With her mother, to this dance. I get out of the car and walk up to the house. I knock on the door. My ex-wife answers. I ask for her and she comes quickly to the door.

"Dad- did I forgot something?"

I hug her. I tell her I love her and I hope she has fun. I then smile and walk away back to my car. I put my keys in the ignition, turn, and hit the gas pedal. I don't look back.

I let go as much as I can. But even then, I know I'll always love her. Even if she doesn't love me the same.

You Don't Care (poem 3)

It's working.
Is it bad I'm
fighting it?
The logical conclusions
that came to me-
I'm fighting.
But I know better.
I should know better.
You have no idea,
and I torture myself.
I put these feelings
down
for weeks,
months.
Do you realize this?
Of course not.
You're not even reading this.

Maybe that's how I can
let you go.
Realize you
don't care.
Not the way
I do.

You don't care
we share the same likes
and hates.
You don't care
we have similar
passions
and that we could
support each other
in them.
You don't care
about me,
at least not like
I care about you.

You avoid me,
don't even say a good morning
sometimes.
Maybe that's my fault,
but what does it matter?
Either way,
you don't care.

And what if you did?
It's not like this would
be easier.
If you did care
it would just make things
more complicated.
For me.
For you.
For everyone involved.

I told a friend.
Yeah, they know.
They told me they'd advocate our
relationship
if there was ever one to advocate.
There isn't.

It's just my disillusioned mind
once again creating
the harm
I do to myself.
Some people think the depressed cut their wrists,
but the truly depressed
cut their souls.
And nothing bleeds
out of a soul.

My soul is covered in cuts
and bruises.
Not all are from this
love,
this joke of an idea.
I just wish,
as a joke,
that it was funny enough to
laugh at.

But no worries.
You don't care,
not like I do.
You don't care
to even know
that I do.
You care about him.
Go on,
care about him.

I'll find someone
who does care.
I at least can
hope to.

Dealing (Poem 2)

I could write a million songs.
And it doesn't make me feel any better.
I can't confront you.
I can't sit and tell people.
I'm lost. So lost.
For once in a long time
I am lost.
And who do I turn to?
My family and friends
only try to console me
and use the same lines
over and over.
The same lines from before.
But this isn't before-
this is now.
This is stupid- they'd say,
you can't be thinking like this
they'd say.
And I'm not thinking like this,
I'm feeling this.
And I don't want to feel this,
but it's true and it's there.
And I write. I write to get out
the words I can't say to you-
to tell you I care.
But I fear you reading it
or someone understanding
the subtle clues I put within
each word.
Each line.
Each sentence.
I could tell you but
that's not an option.
The only option
is to somehow rid myself
of these feelings
and hope you are happy.

Just like every other girl
I've ever fallen for.
I can only hope you wind up
happy.

I Don't Know (poem 1)

I don't know.
Sometimes I think it's better this way.
Sometimes I just want things to be different between us.
The subtleties you don't notice.
The things I do.
The similarities in what we like,
and hate.
Not wanting to give up what
you have,
but forced to- by things
you can't control.
I don't know
what to say to you.
I don't know
if I will see you again.
But I want to.
I want to grow closer
to you.
I want to have more
fun times.
But there's this wall
blocking me from ever
thinking
about truly wanting that.
There's this barrier,
invisible,
that'll never go away.
And even if it does
I assure you
there's another one
just waiting to
block me again.

I don't know.
It hurts when
you hurt.
It's insane
to even think that way.
Maybe it's the awkwardness
between us.
Maybe it's something else
I don't notice.
Maybe it's mutual,
but you know better
and I don't.
I don't know.

I just wish things were
simpler.
Easier.
Better.
I'm just glad I got to
spend time with you.
Even though it was
awkward
at times. But it was
totally worth it.

I don't know.
Maybe it's the loneliness.
The not wanting to be alone
anymore.
The fact I've grown and
am more mature now
than I was years ago.
But with you?
That doesn't work.
You aren't super mature,
you're mind is still looking for
fun.
But so is mine.
And sometimes we disagree on what's
fun.
But nobody agrees on
everything.
I don't know.

The only thing I know
is that I don't want to say
goodbye.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But I'll get over this.
This is simple.
You aren't perfect.
I can find a
flaw.
I can focus on that
and it'll be over with.

I don't know.
I feel as though your flaws
disappear.
But again maybe that's just
the loneliness.
Maybe that's just me
settling.
And I never settle.
But I don't think
I'll ever find someone
like you.
Whose aura is like yours.
Whose persona is like yours.

But I only think that.
I don't know.

Viruses

“Matt? Are they all gone?”
“No, Chris. You know they’ll never be gone.”
“I’m tired.”
“Go to sleep. I’ll make sure they don’t get you.”
My brother. He’s only six years old and doesn’t understand. Hell, I’m only nineteen and I barely understand. All I know is- you shoot and ask questions later. This isn’t the apocalypse. This is science gone wrong.
Only three months ago did the problem start. I remember sitting online reading about the new technology that was being tested. A technology that would allow humans to live forever.
“Did you hear that Matt?”
“No, Chris. I heard nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Tiny robots that acted like cells, but better. They’d go through your veins and clean out the bad cholesterol. They’d locate themselves where pain was and begin work on rebuilding whatever was broken. Your skin never got wrinkled. Your hair never got gray. It was a miracle breakthrough that everyone was going to live forever.
They made laws on how many people could be born. They relegated who could live and who could die. Right wing religious people didn’t want to live forever and refused the technology.
“There’s a rustling outside.”
“No there isn’t.”
Atheists jumped on the opportunity. Older people took it to look younger, and boy did they. You couldn’t tell my grandma was in her eighties afterwards. Most people looked like they were in their twenties or younger.
The whole world was just full of people in their twenties.
“I can’t sleep. I’m too hungry.”
“I’m hungry too. We’ll find something in the morning to eat.”
Gun violence became pointless. The body could anticipate where the bullet was going to hit and rebuild before the person was dead. They’d shield the bullet. Not to say that people didn’t die from guns- it was just less people. A gun to the head still meant you were dead. The brain was one of the few things that couldn’t be saved fast enough.
And a direct hit to the heart, you may come back to life. But it was unlikely. The technology just wasn’t fast enough to heal the heart like that.
And multiple wounds? You’re dead on the spot.
“I miss mom and dad.”
“Me too. But I’m sure they’re fine.”
“You think they’re alive?”
“I’m sure they are. And if not, then they’re with God and He’s taking care of them.”
But this was years ago. Three months ago is when the problem started. You see, what we didn’t realize was that robots are computers. And computers can get viruses. And viruses, well, they basically fuck you up really well.
And, if you didn’t guess it, someone made a virus. A religious nut that wanted people to die for using the tech. No one knows who it was, but he transferred it to a huge amount of people with some Bluetooth and hacks. A whole coffee shop just wound up dead on the floor. The robots destroying the people’s insides.
“How many more bullets do we have left?”
“Enough.”
And then someone else in France copied him. Walked right up to the Eiffel Tower and turned the thing on. Just walked away. It was the new form of terrorism. And it was easy.
But then some smartass in the government wanted to control criminals on death row by remote. So they made a virus and gave it to this serial killer. And guess what happened to him? He goes fucking crazy. The virus fucks up his ability to think. He attacks everything, bites the nurse who gave him the shot.
And then she gets infected with the virus and she starts going crazy and kills the serial killer and everyone in the room. And then starts to go on this rampage. Some religious nut gets a hold of the virus three months ago and spreads it downtown New York City.
“Enough to kill a hundred zombies?”
“They aren’t zombies. They’re just infected.”
And then we all became fucked. Even the religious nuts got fucked because they didn’t realize the infected people would just kill them by beating the shit out of ‘em.
“Mom and dad weren’t infected.”
“No. And neither are we.”
“I’m scared.”
“Me too, bud.”
And this is my apocalypse. Three months ago my family was fine. Now it’s just Chris and me, sitting in this basement, holding a shotgun and hoping for survival.
I know what you’re thinking- zombie movie. No. This is not a zombie movie. You see, zombies have traits that these virus infected people don’t have.
“Are you sure you didn’t hear the rustling outside?”
“I’m positive.”
First, zombies have a craving for human flesh. These people have a desire to destroy anything.
Zombies don’t attack each other. These people will attack anything. If there was a cute puppy out there it would be dead. They get distracted by loud toys fairly easily. Throw them something that makes noise and you can escape.
“Do you have anything to distract them with?”
“Your toys there. Throw them like we practiced.”
Zombies tend to have the ability to rip flesh off with their teeth. If you’ve never tried to rip off human flesh that’s still alive, you should know it’s a lot more difficult than it looks. Especially if they’re struggling. But the second they break skin, you’re fucked.
That’s because the infected have a problem with biting their lips. They want to destroy so badly they bite their own lips and constantly have blood there while attacking. Once they break your skin and one of those virus bots gets in, you’re now infected too.
“And they can’t get me by just looking at me?”
“No. They won’t get you if you look at them. They have to bite you.”
These infected also don’t look half bad. Zombies I tend to see as rotting and slow. You get a marathon runner infected, he won’t be slow. Thank God for guns.
“You think we need a better gun?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like a semi-automatic. One that can just go eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh. That gun we have now wasn’t very good in my games.”
“It’ll be fine. Double-barrel shotguns work better in real life.”
The only way to kill the infected here are to shoot them in the head or watch as they fight each other. But I wouldn’t just stand in the open. For some reason they tend to stop fighting each other if someone not infected shows up. At least until you’re dead or infected too.
“So I throw the toy and then you shoot and then we run?”
“Only if there’s a lot of them. Only run if there’s a lot of them. And don’t touch the blood. Whatever you do don’t touch the blood.”
And what about us? Well, my parents were the religious type. Thank God. They thought it’d be good to not live forever. I on the other hand wanted to change that. My grandmother said she wanted to live for a bit longer to see Chris graduate and to see her great grandkids. She had control over when she would die, and she’d go when she was ready.
“What happens if I touch the blood?”
“You’ll get sick like they are.”
I liked that thought. When the virus broke, I was scheduled to get the robots. I was ready to live life without so much worry of death.
“And I’ll die?”
“Yes Chris. You’ll die.”
But I don’t have them. Neither does Chris. I don’t know what happens if an infected bites you, but we’re not taking a chance. The robots can’t multiply, but I wonder how many need to be inside before they can control you.
“I thought I needed to have the robots?”
“No. You’ll die. Now go back to sleep.”
“Don’t you hear the rustling?”
“There is no rustling. There’s no one outside. Go to sleep.”
“Cock the gun please.”
“Why?”
“Just in case I touch the blood.”
And that’s really the story. Just another day here in this virus-infected land.