Dennis Masino

Issue 16

Flash Fiction

How I came to this place is unimportant, but here I am. Much sooner than I’d anticipated.

Funeral homes never appealed to me. They smell odd. As much as they try to mask it, you know immediately that you’ve entered a place where the dead reside. A stopping-off place in a final journey that we started decades or, sometimes tragically, minutes or hours after life began.

The odors of chemicals and long-dead flowers mingle with the scent of freshening agents added by the proprietors to mask the smell of death. They provide hints of the purpose of this place, but odors no longer affect me.

I was the first to arrive. Only a handful of people joined me. I’d hoped more would come, yet the sparse gathering was no surprise. I was troubled nonetheless. Is that her crying at the casket? The years have been kind to her. My former wife remains as beautiful as that day when a judge granted the divorce almost five years ago. I do miss her. Perhaps, I should let her know, but what’s the point? It would not change things.

My daughter arrived late, as usual. I don’t see my son. He was the oldest and felt the brunt of my anger. Anger that came from alcohol and an internal rage planted within me years earlier by my alcoholic and abusive parents.

A father who worked in a factory and stopped at a bar for a few drinks to loosen up after work. His job and the bar were within walking distance of our apartment. Convenient for a drunk who’d stagger home only to pass out on the sofa or the floor.

Mother was a different kind of drunk. Her first drink of the day was in the morning to “improve the taste of the coffee,” she’d say. A good dose of cheap bourbon got things started.

When I got home from school, it didn’t take much to set her off into an uncontrollable rage. I still have scars left by the electric cord she cut from an old iron and saved. What kind of parent thinks to keep an electric cord to use on her child?

I blamed my parents when I became a drunken and abusive husband and parent. It was only through the perseverance of my wife, who saw something in me that was worth holding on to, that the marriage lasted for fifteen years.

She stayed through couples counseling when I’d have a few drinks before each session. She was there through my failed attempts at rehabilitation. But when she realized I’d given up on myself, it was over. She had to look out for herself and our children.

I need to tell her how I changed. Tell her about the rehab and the weekly AA meetings that kept me sober for the past 18 months. Tell her how much I miss her and the children and how it was my fault. How all of it was my fault. 

Here’s the funeral director coming toward the casket. Why is the light fading? Please, wait. I need time. It’s time to tell them. It’s time to make things right. There still must be time.

Please, stop them from leaving. Please! It’s not too late.