Heartless

Heartless(Marice N) Anger filled my heart as I walked into my favorite Cafe. She was sitting at my table. I walked up to her. “You killed him!” I said, slamming my hands down on the round table. I only said it loud enough for her to hear. I didn’t want to cause a scene.

She didn't know who I was, but I knew her from the pictures I've seen. She acted confused, but she definitely knew who I was talking about. “Why would I kill my own father?” she said. Her act of innocence made me want to slap her face, but two could play that game.

“I know you killed him.” I said, calmly taking a seat.

“He died of a heart attack.” she said. I sat quietly as I thought about what I wanted to say to her. We sat there for a few minutes, before she spoke again. “Who are you? Why do you care?” she questioned.

“I'm his daughter.” I said, which seemed to set her off.

“No you aren't! I'm his only child.” she said as quietly as an infuriated person could. She didn't want to cause a scene either.

“No,” I said calmly, “You’re the reason he's dead.”

I was more of a daughter to him than she ever was. He had never wanted to talk about her. When I had gone to his house for the first time, I noticed that his house did not reflect his character. I knew he was a family man because of the way I met him. Yet, there were no pictures of his family, not even any of his wife. “Why don’t you have any pictures of your family?” I asked.

He smiled at me, with a tinge of sadness in his eyes, saying, “I took them down. Angela, my daughter, hardly visits me anymore. I think it was because the pictures make her sad.” He brought out a couple of pictures of his wife and daughter, but he quickly put them away, and the subject was never brought up again.

“Please,” she said, bringing me back to the present, “Explain to me as to why I would kill my own father. Only a sick person would kill their father. I am not that kind of person.”

I laughed at her. “You're right,” I said, “You didn't kill your father.” She sat back in her chair, folding her arms, and smiling smugly. “You killed my father.” I continued.

If she was boiling before, she was about to blow now. She stood up and raised her hand at me, ready to slap me. I quickly put out my hands in defense. The action caused a few people to look at us. Her face fell as she asked me, “Where did you get that bracelet?” We slowly sat down, again. The onlookers quickly went back to their own business. I knew we were finally getting somewhere. However, I did not know where I wanted this to go.

“He gave it to me for my birthday last year.” I answered.

“How do you know my father?” She asked.

“I met him at the graveyard two years ago.” I explained. I had gone to the cemetery once every week to visit my parents after they died in a car accident. This man was there at the same time I was, every Sunday. I had seen him there a few times before I ever made any move to acknowledge him. We slowly went from smiling to each other, to saying hello, to finally talking. As time went by, we got a good relationship going.

His name was John Carson. Mr. Carson went to the cemetery every week to visit his wife. She passed away because she had heart trouble. Mr. Carson and I found comfort in each other. He was like a father to me. He always told me that I was the daughter he had lost. I did not know what he meant by that, except that his daughter hardly visited him, but I knew that I was going to be the daughter he deserved.

She was quiet again, after I explained my story to her. I was getting tired of her silence, so I said, “Why do you care about my bracelet anyways?”

She stared at my bracelet as she whispered, “It was my mother’s.” She quickly changed the subject after that, which was something Angela and her father had in common. They didn't like to talk about things that saddened them. “It doesn't matter anyways,” she said, “You still haven't given me a clear explanation as to why you think I killed my father. If you truly knew him like you say you did, you'd know that he wasn't murdered. He had a heart attack.”

I sat back thinking about what I was going to say to her.
“I visited him every day.” I said.

“I was busy.” she replied, “Is that a crime?”

“No,” I said, “It's a crime to kill your father.”

“I did not kill my father!” she said, enraged. She was growing impatient.

“You never tried to contact him in any way.” I told her.

She sighed, then. “I knew that he had heart problems, just like my mother.”

“So,” I said coldly, “You should have been there for him.”

She looked away, sighing again. “When my mother died, I blamed it on myself.”

“So?” I said, again. If she wanted me to feel sorry for her, it wasn't going to happen.

“I didn't want to feel that guilt again, so I decided to distance myself from my father.” She whispered.

I grabbed her cup of coffee and dumped it on her. Everyone in the Cafe looked at us as a loud, piercing screech came from Angela. “What is wrong with you?” She screamed, standing up.

I stood up, too. “You killed your father!” I yelled back. All eyes were on us, waiting for the next move.

She grabbed my face, pulling it only inches away from her face. “I did not kill my father.” She said slowly, enunciating every word, saying it loud enough for everyone else to hear, too.

“You pulled away from your father because you did not want to feel the guilt you felt when your mother died.” I said.

“I know,” she said, “I just told you that!” It suddenly hit me that, despite my attempts to not make a scene, we ended up in that exact predicament anyways. I suppose you can’t just accuse someone of killing their father and expect everyone to go about their business. I headed for the door, feeling the burning stares of everyone in the room.

“Wait!” she yelled at me. She ran after me, grabbing my wrist.

“What do you want?” I said turning around.

“Why do you think I killed my father?” She said. Everyone listened closely, wanting to know the exact same thing.

She was blind. After all of this, she still didn't know why I accused her of killing Mr. Carson. “Don't you see,” I said, “You tried so hard not to feel the guilt you felt when your mother died, yet guilt is all you should be feeling. You abandoned your father when he needed you the most. You basically left him there to die alone. You may not have stabbed your father in his heart, but you might as well have.” Everyone became uninterested at this point, realizing that Angela was not a real murderer. Angela, though, was shocked as the revelation hit her. I removed my hand from her grip and walked away.