What Was Left Behind
Sam lived in an old apartment, alone except for the dust that seemed to accumulate faster than he could ignore it. He had a routine of sorts, coming home late after working two jobs that barely scratched the surface of what he needed. Money never seemed to be enough, and rent was mostly paid by his parents. His mother died two years ago and he never went back to visit after that. He had visited them before, but it did not amount to much. He would leave after a day, and his father he never talked to.
Calls would have done the job, but still he wasn't able to muster the strength.
Afraid of the judgment, the kind that comes when you're in your thirties and still owe everything to your parents. A drug riddled past. Countless overdoses. Thousands spent in therapy centers. He'd spent most of his adult life being a nuisance to them, but late at night when he couldn't sleep, he'd think about calling, that someday he will be able to repay them. He'd feel the weight of it all pressing down. As they say, drugs don't leave you. A hull of it remains.
He came home late that day and laid on his bed, saying words that meant nothing, just to hear something, a background noise perhaps. His eyes were beginning to drift when his phone rang on the side table. He checked the caller ID. His father.
He stopped. His mind spiraled through scenarios, and for a moment he decided to let it ring. Then instinct took over. He answered.
The voice on the other end wasn't his father. It was a woman.
"I'm your father's caretaker," she said. "Can you come down here?"
His heart raced. "What happened?" he asked.
"I'm sorry to tell you that your father has died."
He felt as though the ground moved at a pace he couldn't keep up with. The more he thought about it, the more apparent it became that he was the only one left, at least no relatives that he knew of. But in his state, he went to his parents' home anyway, which was quite far but in the same city he lived in. When he arrived, he saw the caretaker and some healthcare people. The ambulance and doctors were still there. He saw his father, who looked it's hard to explain not like him, no soul left. He couldn't watch him like that. Before the burial, people kept on revisiting the deceased so that a clear image remains, but it's harder said than done. For most of the day he avoided interaction, thankful that everything would be taken care of by their caretaker and everything specified in the will. He had gone numb to the idea of people dying. His mom. His friend who overdosed with him. The people in his rehabilitation facility, some of whom chose to take their lives instead of throwing out drugs. Taking in all, everything around the ceremony, the people, he thought of himself one day in that crate.
The lawyer found Sam near the door after the burial, approaching with practiced composure. "Your father left everything to you," Mr. Brennan said. "The house, the savings. About forty thousand dollars after debts."
Sam felt nothing. He waited for some kind of feeling to arrive, but nothing came.
Later, Sam walked through the house alone. In his father's nightstand drawer, he found receipts.
Medical receipts, pharmacy receipts, hospital parking tickets dating back years. His dad was dying slowly and never told him. The money he sent wasn't casual, it was a dying man's last act of care, stretched thin while managing his own deterioration. Sam understood then that his dad's withdrawal wasn't coldness but the energy it took just to survive.
Sam sat on the edge of the bed, the receipts scattered around him. Maybe this inheritance, this second chance, had come from someone who had never stopped watching him. Maybe that was enough to rebuild on.
The Inkwell Combined Writing Prompt #33 ~ Fiction or Creative Nonfiction