[ WP ] You have broken into someone 's house , and discover a shrine dedicated to you ...

“ I HATE YOU! ” I screamed into the night. My eyes, stinging from the hot tears streaming down my face, fell silently onto the frost-tipped grass at my feet. Shivering, I took another swig from the bottle of poison in my hand. John tried to take the bottle from me in a slow, friendly gesture. “ Save some for me, man ” he offered, much to my dismay. “ Fuck off, John. Just… ” I trailed off, my eyes fixated on the pitiful sight before us. 
 
 The dilapidated house that sat before us was not even worth a second glance. In fact, this entire neighborhood was one trainwreck after another. This truly was where sad souls curled up to die, a reminder that there exists a whole segment of the population that simply survives until they get old enough to expire. My phone buzzed angrily in my pocket, but obviously I couldn ’ t get it out of my pocket right now. Instead, I lazily absorbed the unkept yard and the peeling paint in blurred images between long, slow blinks. The porch swing rocked ever so slightly on its rusted chains in the cool night breeze. As if anyone would ever sit on that thing, anyways. 
 
 Against my will, my feet began the trek towards this small house. It really was small, so small. So insignificantly small. Like you could squash it in the palm of- 
 
 Before I realized it, I was already at the door. Uncomfortably close to the door. Too close. My nose pressed against the wood, the smell of faded paint again reminding me of how shitty this house truly was. I felt the familiar tug of John ’ s guiding hand on my shoulder. “ Hey man, it ’ s been a long day. Let ’ s just head back, yeah? ” I squared up to him, attempting to impersonate weighing my options carefully. “ Yeah... Uh, actually I was thinking... ” With that, I reared back and hurled the glass bottle at the door, roaring “ NO! ” as loud as I could muster. John quickly recoiled as shards and booze covered the both of us. “ The hell, man? ” He stood motionless, apparently at a loss for how to react to my outburst. 
 
 I locked my eyes with his, and reached for the door. Unlocked, of course. I bet there was nothing of value in the this house, anyways. He remained motionless at the door as I walked through the door, paralyzed by my sudden violence. 
 
 Alone, I stepped into the house. Barely furnished, the place looked like it was probably another drug den in the neighborhood. Emboldened by my easy entrance, I yelled into the void, “ Hello? Anyone home? ” I laughed, nearly hysterically, and swung around expecting to see John reluctantly following me into the house. Except he didn ’ t. I could barely make out his shoulders, hunched forward, making his way back towards the street. The sudden realization that I was alone in the darkness brought me quickly back to reality. 
 
 ___ 
 
 In reality, I knew this house. I remembered everything. Specifically, exactly where I was standing, I could remember at least a half dozen times I had been mercilessly beaten with his belt. Sometimes it was recompense for some made-up sin, and sometimes just because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I remembered the scars that would run up and down my left arm, a long-forgotten memory buried deep somewhere. 
 
 And then the tears came again. The hatred mixed with sorrow. The seething hatred that he could be so goddamn selfish. To leave without so much as a goodbye, to be so distant for so long. His capacity for inflicting physical pain was matched only by his ability to cripple me emotionally. To make me feel less than worthless, to actively avoid my life. My God, the effort that it takes to go on like that for years. 
 
 I went to reach for the scars on my left arm, to come up empty handed, again. A recurring motion - ingrained since childhood - that I hadn ’ t yet learn to abandon. He missed everything. Teaching me to drive, giving me tips on girls, celebrating my high school graduation, joining the Army, graduating Basic. He missed everything. 
 
 But I hated him most when I came back home and he wasn ’ t there. I came back a shell of my former self. After the blast, my whole life changed. In the mirror, I looked back at a cripple. A former high school athlete, a goddamn Soldier, now nothing more than a one-armed fuck. I hated myself. But I hated him more than I hated myself. He knew - he knew because I saw him once - but he was too scared. Scared of coming back. Scared of becoming the man he should ’ ve been for me all along. 
 
 How long had I been staring at the floor? A minute? An hour? A day? I stood in the pitch-black living room, tears dripping onto the dusty floor beneath me. Lost, without purpose, I began to wander into the hallway. At the end, foreboding, stood a single white door. As I approached the door in the darkness, I noticed how utterly silent the house was around me. It seemed to be especially cold and devoid of life. 
 
 His face was cold and devoid of life. Hours ago, in his casket, he looked as emotionless as I remembered him as a child. Stern, unforgiving. But here, dead, he seemed to have proven that he really could not give two shits about me. That he could go this long and, even in his dying days, still ignore his son. His son. Me. 
 
 I opened the door. Time stopped. I saw the bedsheets of a dead man. The awkward way they fell halfway off the bed, unmade during his final day in this world. His dresser had a single drawer open, probably missing the last set of clothes he wore. But what caught my eye was the closet. A sense of dread rushed over me, a primal fear of the unknown. 
 
 The light in the closet was on. 
 
 I crept towards the closet, fearful of… Of what? My right hand grasped the handle, and I gently eased the door open. The yellow light softly bathed his closet. The first thing I noticed was that he didn ’ t have anything hanging in his closet. And then I saw it. 
 
 Sitting neatly against the back of the closet was a single end table, about two feet tall. In the center was a framed picture of my high school portrait. I could feel the lump in my throat growing. To the left of my portrait was my Purple Heart that I had thrown in his face when he dared to visit me years ago. To the right of my portrait was a single, faded Polaroid of us both smiling as he pushed me on my first bike. And that was it. Those three items, sitting lonely on the end table in the closet. I dropped to my knees, my chest shuddering with every breath. 
 
 “ I hate you, ” I muttered under my breath, less convincingly this time.
