The Stink of Homage (standard:drama, 311 words)
Author: Cyrano	Added: Dec 10 2008	Views/Reads: 3271/0	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
We come into the world alone, leave the same, we should spend the inbetween time in closeness.

London 

Stink of homage paid. 

Is this what you want? That I should come here to kiss your corpse? You
should have pardoned me; it would have been easier to stand here, 
hymnal in my hands, lips sealed. They said I'd have regrets when you 
died. It's been two days, I have none. The church is less occupied than 
even you could have hoped for. Christ, you were the meanest human being 
that ever had any position in my life. Now you are dead, your wish, 
your daily prayer answered. Eleven of us pay homage to your living, but 
only the priest sings. The air is cool, the mustiness of wooden pews, 
the coldness of stone floors, the scent of furniture polish ingrained 
into the dark wood, and the misty breath of family. You just couldn't 
give in, could you? In death you merely imprison us all in the guilt of 
our hate. You'll be smug in hell. I could have blown your brains out on 
more than one occasion, even thought to take the pillow and snuff the 
very last bit of life out of your garbage filled body. But then there 
was always a sense of merely pleasuring you. 

I still have the letter you wrote to me: ‘You're right,' you say, ‘just
love me, protect me and trust me. I am weak and in need of kindliness. 
I won't mess you up anymore.' 

Yes, it was good stuff, even smelled of onionskins. I held it in the
church, read it as the priest was speaking...this letter of martyrdom. 
The priest offered to shake my hand. I told him I couldn't do that... 
that everything he had said from the altar was a lie. He said he was 
sorry. I left the church and walked away alone. 

The letter ended: ‘...never believe I've abandoned you. Dad.' 

You just did. 


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