Note: This one is not very good

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My father died a month ago. Spirits will fade on once at rest, but I'm lost on how to please him. I always have been. But, now, his constant presence means it is all I can think about.

They were pleased at his funeral when nobody could see him. It proves a life well lived when you need no help to leave, so I hadn't the heart to tell them. Not when I spotted him through the mourners, the small crowd of familiars and quiet cousins. Not when he stood behind me as I took the stage to speak about our life together. Not on the slow ride home, or since…

I think he needs to be proud of me, and it's clear I haven't done enough.

• • •

I wake up; 11am. I can't turn my back to the morning because today is important, but I'm not thrilled. I shamble to the kitchen for my coffee, my crumpet, my nod to Dad. I savour my tasteless gruel while I thumb through my portfolio on the couch, a ritual as of late. I only have small, desperate university projects, and the sparse output of barely related hobbies. I studied art, and do believe in it, but always found it hard to make much at all. Or anything good, for that matter.

A startup has contacted me through an old university friend who seemed to like me, probably because I'm promising and cheap labour. Perfect for a shoestring budget, but unknown enough for an interview this evening.

I peek at my father. He's resting in a armchair across from me, obviously watching the time.

• • •

‘Thanks for coming in today. I'm Mark, this is Fatima, and we're the team so far.’ He fidgets under the too-bright lights of an office that is not his. ‘We like what you've sent but couldn't get an employer's referral, so could you tell us a bit about how you handle work? Would an article a week be stressful?’

Hm, I haven't had a job before, so what could I say? I could tell you about university. The smallest assignments scared me, I broke down often, and I hated everything I made. I choked with stress from deadlines that were months away, and my life was as cramped as this stupid cubicle.

‘Well, at university I kept well on schedule and worked a lot. I made good pieces even when I was rushed, so I think I could handle stress here too.’

They seem happy to hear this.

• • •

I lay sunken into my couch, as I have for days. Why the hell does an article about the recession demand banner art? Such a thing is so intangible and tasteless, but I don't know how to tell Fatima in a friendly email. I'm unsure where Dad has gone, he won't stay around me when I'm like this; yet, there's too much work to be ashamed. Simply getting this opportunity should have been impressive enough, but it's like he knew I couldn't handle it. He stayed to watch. So, when will it be enough?

No, no more, I can't stand this. I'll scratch out a cliché instead.

• • •

It's been two years since my father died. My startup stint only lasted until I stopped submitting, and there's only been a few unbearable jobs since. Everything is getting worse, and I've had to move back in with Mom. I don't think she knows why, exactly, but him? He is still watching. Never saying a word but scouring my mind with his whispers the same. Yes, I know I'm a mess! I haven't held it together! But I will, I must, I'll go on like always. I'll get him eventually, and when I do, I won't have to see his sad eyes any longer.

• • •

He stands behind me as I let the night air pass over my body. It's a long way down. Every particle of mine wants to scatter and flee, so the best I can do is sit and soak it in. The shame at my back arrests any movement.

‘How were you able to do so much? How does it feel that I couldn't match even a fraction of it?’

I haven't spoken to my father since he died who-knows-when, but in this moment the questions just have a life of their own. He had a business, you know, while I was a last-minute addition to a trio of strangers at my best, and a failure for the rest.

‘None of it works out, I can't get it. I've tried, for years, giving my best, and nothing is enough! You're so damn difficult! Tell me, please, tell me what more I could have given you?’

My desperation diffuses into the silent breeze. He wasn't going to answer anyway, I knew that. I sigh, and then… he sits beside me, watching my face as he does.

‘Fin, I haven't wanted anything, only the best for you.’ His eyes swim as he looks at me. ‘I'm sorry I couldn't help you be happy. I've been too scared to talk to you or ask what you needed, and to think you've pushed yourself so hard because of me… it breaks my heart. I can't apologise enough.’

I… what do I do with this?

‘Please, I need to know! Tell me honestly!’

‘It's the truth, it always has been. I'm so sorry I couldn't make it right sooner.’

No, it's just too much. My guts fold in on themselves, and I can't stay together. ‘I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I…’

‘Don't be sorry, please don't. I love you, Fin.’

This completely breaks me. I fall onto him, and he holds me tighter than anything. I heave and sob while he quietly repeats himself, ‘I love you, I'm sorry, I love you…’

• • •

I wake up, sore all over with no tears left. Everything aches, inside and out, but I feel better than I have for years.

I sit up and open my eyes, taking in the sunrise… and find my father has disappeared.