He steps closer, far from afraid. That's where the line between Jason and this young man is drawn. The memory of a parent can be a terrifying thing, the type of impression that never fades, never lessens— there isn't a day when I don't think of my own parents, the shadows that they cast and whether or not I live up to them, if I can ever manage even for a moment. As a father, I certainly haven't. I know that. I could try and justify it all I want, argue that any son of mine needs to be prepared for the eventuality, the likelihood that there will come a day when I am no longer around, long before they feel ready.
Truth is, I'm simply not fit to be a father.
A second passes before I ask, without taking a step, heart still thrumming with the adrenaline that refuses to subside, hands still clenched. "What's your name?"
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Date: 2011-11-18 05:22 am (UTC)Truth is, I'm simply not fit to be a father.
A second passes before I ask, without taking a step, heart still thrumming with the adrenaline that refuses to subside, hands still clenched. "What's your name?"