I remember when I woke up that day. It was around noon. As usual. More like around two.
I figured it was a good time as any to go to my father’s house. This in itself was hard, because he had divorced my mom earlier in the year. I hadn’t spoken to him since then. But, unlike so many people, I understood love. But, confusingly enough, it was love that confused me.
I rolled into the driveway. What could I say? I had nothing prepared. And that was the issue. Nothing prepared me for what I was about to see. My father came out and hugged me. It was the generic “father and son” moment that you’d expect out of a 1950’s cinema film. I embraced him and wept. Dad smelt good. Better than when he lived at home with us. I felt good about my father after he destroyed our family. Again, it was confusing, but I call it “love”.
He lead me inside. He had taken what money he could from my mother and bought a farm. It was damned impressive, I must say. Cows, chickens, goats, what have you. For a man who grew up in the city, he had certainly adapted to the rural life better than you and I ever could.
Bliss was in the air.
…then father put on the television.
That’s when I saw America die.
What was a day in the life for my father was a rude awakening for me. I had no idea that he was so used to the images of America getting destroyed. Had my father betrayed us all? I mean, how could he just sit there and see them take over. Where was my country? Where was the love?
Where was my father’s patriotism?
I couldn’t stomach it. I ran. I ran what I think was a quarter of a mile to the closest person’s house. Barely a “neighbor”. I looked in through their windows. They were watching Larry King Live. But just how live was it? I mean, did Larry King not care about America? I was stunned. So stunned.
Was I the only one who saw the attack?
I started to scream; how could these “neighbors” not care? I pounded on their windows, I cursed them in the name of our Lord. One of them, the whore wife, gave me a look. Believe me when I say it wasn’t the look of a patriot. I smashed their window with my fist. Bloodied? Yes. But did I care? No.
Because on this day…
…I was America.
I ran home to my father. Or, as I called him, “the betrayer”. I screamed. I cried. He couldn’t calm me down. He was so confused.
My well-built brother Jet came in from tending to an abscess on a leg.
“What’s wrong, brother?”
“Son, please! What’s gotten into you?!”
No response was needed from me. I took a dark beer mug and smashed it across my brother’s face. I had always considered him to be underdeveloped; perhaps that is why he worked out so much. However, since his muscular nature was strong, no blood was shed. Yet, his patriotism was so weak, it was a given who had won that battle.
“HOW CAN YOU ALL JUST STAND THERE AND WATCH?!” I screamed as my father tackled me to the ground. “OUR COUNTRY IS DYING! AND YET, YOU STAND THERE, WATCHING AND NOT CARING, LIKE THE MONSTERS THAT YOU ARE!”
That’s when the chord struck. My father and brother (who, again, mind you, is super jacked) exchanged glances. Had the divorce of my parents ruined my mind to the point of no return? Clearly not. I knew I had no family. All I had around me was America’s enemy.
Where was I? Where had I been?
Simple: I was in America.
I upper-cut the man I called “father”, and delivered a round-house kick to face of my so-called “patriotic” brother Jet. Both went down, but came back, practically guns-a-blazin’. Except that, instead of guns, it was fists. Sorry.
I delivered a powerful blow to their heads. They went down once more, but instead of staying down, they got back up again and smashed my head into my father’s kitchen table. Soon enough, I would realize that this table was reality.
As the pouring blood covered my eyes, I prayed to God. And He cleared my vision.
I looked up from the table. Yes, I had some teeth missing, but I quickly realized I was missing something else.
On my father’s kitchen television, I saw the attack again. This time however, I finally read the words on the screen.
They read September 11th, 2001.
It was then I realized that on December 14th, 2001, at 47 years old, I became the last American to find out about 9/11.
My family hasn’t spoken to me since.
Back to the front page