My Vibe

Was it instinct that told me he was dead, or was it the wretched smell oozing off of his body? Looking back, I believe it was a mixture of the two, blending together in perfect harmony. Death is a curious thing; it tends to strike at the strangest hours, in the most peculiar ways. My father’s death was no exception. He was in perfect health, mentally, emotionally, and physically, so when I stumbled upon his dead body, next to an opened bottle of pills, I suspected his level of happiness was not as high as I thought it was.
I walked into my home, which was toasty from being cooked in the sun all day. We lived in the Mojave, and heat was something we learned to live with. Sweat pooled over my brow, and I loped to the fridge to get something to quench my unbearable thirst. When the cool water met my lips I was drawn into a heavenly sensation, one that filled my entire body - that is until something went wrong.
Ever since I was a little boy I had been known to sense things. No, I did not see the dead, but I did tend to feel a lurking evil, a lingering fear in the air. When I was five my mother got into a car crash, a crash that took her life. When the phone rang I told my father, “The news is bad, prepare yourself.” The call was from the cops; my mother was dead. I had rarely felt this “vibe” since then, but occasionally I would get it.
When this sensation entered my body, interrupting my joy of the water, fear shot through my spine. I slowly lowered the glass from my lips, and set it onto the table. A chill went down my back and to my fingers, causing me to shiver ever so slightly. I smelled the air, almost looking as if I was a starving animal, trying to smell the air for a hint of blood. Instinct pointed me to the stairs. At least I like to say it was instinct, but deep down I knew that it was my gift, my gift to sense death.
I slowly climbed the stairs, knowing that no one had been in the house except my dad. I had left early in the morning, about 8, and it was now 4 in the afternoon. If my dad had passed away while I was gone he could’ve been baking for hours. I shuddered at the gut wrenching thought. It had been years, as I said before, since this “vibe” had come to me. I felt it when I was 5 years old. Now I was 13, but the “vibe” was as keen as ever.
I reached the top of the stairs, and peered down the hall. It seemed to grow as if it didn’t want me to reach the end of it, where of course, my father’s room was. Ignoring the strange illusion, I stepped off the final stair and into the hallway. I cautiously walked down the hallway, half expecting a beast to jump out of thin air. The “vibe” intensified. My site blurred, and I felt sick. I not only felt sick, but terrified. Whatever lay at the end of the hallway was not pretty.
I walked on, trying to disregard my sickening feeling. I could hear the heartbeat of my very own heart! Oh, it was terrible, a very miserable state of affairs. I had finally reached my destination: the end of the hallway, my father’s room. I bravely stepped in the room, and braced myself for what laid beyond the doors.
I held my breath, closed my eyes, cleared my mind, and reopened my eyes. The site that lay before sent me into a vortex of pain and confusion. The stench was probably the cause of the sick stomach, for the stench of dead human flesh had to be the worst. The stench belonged to my father, lying on his bed, face up, eyes opened, staring into space. His palms faced towards the ceiling, one containing a bottle of pills (opened and half empty), and the other a rolled up piece of paper.
I walked slowly towards the body, head turned away, with one hand plugging my nose. When I reached the body, I took the note from his hands, and left the room as fast as my legs could carry me. The note was short, and simple, but it explained it all.

Billy,
I love you and I’m sorry, but I can’t take it anymore. Your mom meant the world to me, and without her, well the world doesn’t mean much anymore. You are a wonderful son, but I can’t go on – I’m sorry for being a coward. Your Aunt Carry will take care of you. Love you much.

Dad

The first feeling I felt was anger. How could he abandon me? How could he leave me to fend for myself? Why didn’t he come to me for help? Why was he such a coward? This terrible feeling pulsed through my body for several moments, but then it was replaced with something new; sadness. A teardrop fell upon the note, blotching out the words I love you.
The note fell to the ground, for my grip loosened, and my hand came up to hold my head. My head hung, and I sobbed into my hands. I loved my father, he was all I had left. He meant the world to me, and without him, well the world didn’t mean much anymore. A coward entered me, but I shooed it away. My parents taught me to be brave. I would live on in my family’s name, and nothing was going to bring me down.

The funeral wasn’t anything amazing. I didn’t cry, not once. I was done crying, done grieving. I needed to be strong for Aunt Carry – Dad was her only brother, her only sibling. The funeral ended and I got into my aunt’s car. She joined me momentarily. Wiping the tears away from her eyes, which were stained from running mascara, and she smiled to me.
“Thank you for being strong Billy. You’re a good lad,” she said with sadness in her voice.
“Anytime, anytime,” I replied as the car pulled away from the graveyard and off into my next chapter of life.
What I did not tell her was that my “vibe” was back, and it was pointing in her direction.