I wasn’t going to write about you today. It’s your birthday; do they celebrate such occasions in Hell? Why the stupid question, isn’t that what you’d ask me, or should I inquire about it in the verbiage you ingrained into my consciousness, accented with your fists, kicks, spittle and maniacal molestation? Please tell me, Dad… please.

Outside I only hear a pounding rain; beyond the night’s gloom, I see nothing. Does this moroseness invading my soul placate your destruction already delivered? I’d like to know, for many say it’s my depression visiting me again. But the many are relinquished to a few that truly understand the craziness… the insanity that was you.

There are no memories of your birthday celebrations worth remembering. Isn’t that sad? I think so. I’m sure my sisters and brother—your other children—would agree; in fact, I know this to be true, as true as I know they don’t share our special bond: me, your first born son; you, the Monster who raped my innocence.

But I didn’t say I had no memory of your birthday celebrations. There is one such memory aching to be released; its parole is granted. I bought you a gift, do you remember? Probably not, it was too simplistic—perhaps unrealistic, but I was a young boy eager to please his father. The gift? Are you asking about the gift? or is that thunder I hear? maybe Satan listening? But to satisfy your curiosity, the gift was a linoleum cutter, a simple tool you never used or ever wanted. I believe it cost a dollar or two: big money for an eight-year old boy eager to do anything to please his father. And were you pleased? Does your grunting and throwing the linoleum cutter into the garbage constitute a happiness later defined by this fifty-four year old man as nothing more as prelude to the darkness that lingers within me to this day?  I deserve an answer, but your silence is as desolate as your compassion was fruitless.

More rain… more thunder. Satan is laughing. Is it raining on the gravestone that bears your—my—name?

Dad, I bet you think I’m just pining for your attention. I sense a perverse joy radiating in this dark room as I write this aided by the light of my computer. So be it. Perversity as defined is: being unreasonable or willfully persisting in doing wrong. That’s you, Dad, in everything that you were or will be when remembered on nights like this. So, happy birthday. What? A gift? You want a gift, a recompense for these disturbing thoughts? I’m sorry, it’s now past midnight: it’s no longer your birthday. And forget Father’s Day, for that day is now my day.

I believe it’s stopped raining. The nighttime has once again surrendered to the serenity of living.