CHAPTER 6 — DEAR DAD.

🦪 DORA 🦪

I've always wanted Dale Lazarus dead. There was a time I wished the Grim Reaper had taken him instead of my father; if possible, he can still fucking take him now and give me my father.

Under the watch of my father, Dale Lazarus treated me like a disease. I can't explain how crazy that hurt me to my spine; it made my hatred for him grow twice the size of the one I have for the devil himself.

He chose my father; he left me, cared more about what my father felt than any feeling we shared. It broke me, so bad that I began to wish him dead in place of my father, if he's going to treat me invincibly, throw our weird love out the window, why not just be dead? But as I wake up with the other side of the bed empty, I almost had a panic attack. As a matter of fact, I had it, only calmed myself with thoughts that he's just out, probably getting something for lunch, and would be back soon. Where is Dale Lazarus?

Minutes pass, and slowly the minutes becomes hours. I become restless, more restless than I thought I will be if he suddenly disappears.

I get up from the bed, notice I am dressed in fresh clothes, smell fresh, and I'm in a whole, neatly made bed.

He nannied me before leaving to God knows where.

More time passes, and it's still the same, not even a sign of him, or a letter to prove he's okay. Now I'm beginning to get really anxious and scared.

One sad day, just like this, I didn't wake up to see my father at home; it was when he finally agreed on something special. he agreed he'd take me to see my mom when he returns. That was the best thing that would have happened to me, the best gift I could have gotten since I never got to meet her, but then, he never came back.

I waited hours to hear something, called multiple times, sent tons of messages. When I got no response, I knew something was wrong, and unfortunately, I was right; something was indeed wrong… he was dead, I was calling a dead man.

Panic begins to set in. I pick up my phone in a hurry and begin to dial Dale Lazarus’s number, but I get no response. Send him constant text messages, but still the same, no reply.

My fear grows to the edge of the dam, and now, I can barely stop my hands from trembling.

“Nothing is wrong,” I murmur to myself, like a mad, traumatized, mentally sick teenager. “He's just busy, or caught up in traffic.”

“He probably doesn't have access to his phone.”

“Maybe he ran out of battery.”

“No, the phone's ringing; it isn't a battery issue,” I say, trying to make up an excuse for his absence.

Now, weird, scary thoughts begin to slip into my head. I can't control or stop them, my intrusive thoughts, or probably instinct, tell me something is wrong, and I should prepare for the worst.

Without putting on shoes, I rush out of the house, still calling and texting, I'm sure I would have left him a million calls and texts, but I don't stop, and I don't plan on stopping.

Suddenly, the sky turns grey, I know what is coming next, and a part of me wanted to rush in to seek shelter from what I fear the most, but at the time, I have something I fear more, something that frightens me to the core, that’s not rain or darkness.

The rain pours on me, like a test to see which one I would choose. Hide from my greatest fear, or ignore this once greatest fear because I have something more important, more choking, more heartbreaking, more traumatizing, something I feel worse about, and this time this rain is little compared to what I’m worried about.

My choice is clear; I didn't move one inch as the rain brutally beat the life out of me. Instead, it brings memories, ones I would rather forget.

It happened in an evening just like this one, my father didn't return early, and after leaving him countless text and messages without him responding, I stood outside all alone, lonely and waiting, and that was when I knew something was wrong, then rain began to fall, just like it's happening now, then a call came in, a call that ended my life tho alive.

“We are calling to inform you that your father died in the ring.”

And that was it, just like that, simple and straight, my father was gone. They didn't sugarcoat it, didn't try to make me feel better or tone down the brutality.

They just told me that he died in the RING, like it was no biggie.

I made myself believe it was some sort of prank even while staring down at his pale, white, cold skin in the wooden coffin. "It's just makeup," I remember saying to myself.

Waiting for someone in the crowd to walk out with a camera and scream, “Cut.”

Or “That's enough, she's just a child, don't drive her crazy.”

And then my dad would jump up while grinning to say, “It was just a prank, Dora.” And declare so sweetly, “Happy birthday.”

I was mentally affected so much that I refused to cry, because I thought if I cried, it might indeed become real, he might really, really be dead, so until I am carrying the ashes that appear to be my father, my brain believed something else.

A fucking, stupid prank that wasn't funny at all.

My birthday gift was the announcement of my father's death. Funny fate twisting everything, and making sure it's not in my favor.

I was just a child who wanted to celebrate her birthday with a visit to her mother. When he died, the only connection to find her died with him… my whole world was burnt into ash alongside his body.

During this time, I was wondering, shouldn't there be someone we report or write a letter of complaint to?

“Oh God, I don't like what's happening… fucking Reverse it.”

The rain strikes my skin more intensely, headbutting me back to the present. I look down to find myself soaked and trembling.

Is this really the end? Am I losing Dale Lazarus, too?