The Pains of Regret

Andy Kim, Year 12

I can see it in his eyes. He’s thinking the same thing I’m thinking, but I’m sending wireless signals to him with my eyes. I heard King Kong can do that without even trying.

Don’t say it Francis. Don’t bring it up.

What are we going to do for money?

And all I can see is Francis’ dirty little nose, and I’m breathing right down his throat, my hands around his collar. He’s limp and doesn’t even fight back; it’s as if he expected it. That just makes me angrier so I swing him around so that I can sink my fist into his snobby little face but I lower my arm. I can’t hit Francis. I can’t hit him. Ma’s dealing with enough already.

I sit back down but silently I’m shaking in fury. I didn’t need another reminder that Dad’s not here anymore today. I was already feeling like hurling when I woke up. The empty chair at the head of the kitchen table is enough. I might burn it later because I can’t bear to see it every day as I eat breakfast. But I know I won’t be able to. That just feels like I’m burning Dad in my memories.

Education. Going to school. Brothers. Rise and Fall of the bloody Roman Empire. It’s all rubbish.

The stench of the old books in the school library makes me want to throw up now. It’s the old parchment smell I breathed in and felt content with just a week ago, but now it’s as if I’ve caught a whiff of that thing called tobacco. It penetrates my nostrils and makes my brain all fuzzy. It is those damned words which kept me from saying a proper goodbye to Dad that morning. I didn’t even see him leave, but he probably hoped I’d say, ‘Have fun at the Argus today, Dad.’ He probably wished I’d leave the world of the African terrains, and come back to Rowena Parade to look up at my father leaving for work.

Who am I kidding? I knew he wished for me to look up at him. Even just once. And yet I still refused to. The book was just too interesting. That’s what hurts and burns my insides right now. I didn’t say goodbye to him. On account of a book. A stupid book about the African tribes hunting the gazelles to offer them up as a bloody sacrifice for their Gods. But it seems like the African tribes have speared my heart instead. Now I’m bleeding. Forever. And Dad’s not coming back home to patch it up.

I’m not going. I thought I could, but I can’t. Dad’s lying in the cold earth, worms and all other nasty, wicked things in that dirt eating his skin. But Francis and I, sitting there like good little boys at our good little desks; it’s as if nothing ever happened. I can’t bear the thought of learning about Julius Caesar when Dad’s not going to quiz me on it at the dinner table later. What’s the point? I don’t see any reason for me to stay. Dad’s gone and he’s never coming back, and it’s this school which kept me too busy from basking in Dad’s energy, Dad’s warmth, Dad’s tenderness. I didn’t even say a proper goodbye. All because of the bloody Africans.

Thomas McMillan - Year 7