My father was liberated from prison three months prior. Despite alcohol being UNCONSTITUTIONAL, he came to me reeking of alcohol with incoherent slurred speech, and he passed out beside his bed. He only got deeper into alcohol since then, going well over the bay whenever he found the chance. I used whatever little money I had left to sustain him in food and water, yet he always found money to go to an illegal alcohol gathering. How did he find the money? The harsh truth came to me one week ago - he sold the family house. I had to pack up and leave the place that the family had been for generations. Alcohol ruined him, just like what Temperance preachers always said. He even snuck out of the house for alcohol when I physically locked him in.
Two weeks ago, he returned - after vomiting at the doorstep - with a weighty, disgusted face. After he went to sleep, he did not wake up. His heart stopped beating, and his breathing halted. In the short two months he was released from prison, he died. I am unused to this kind of death with no bullet wound, and my sadness is not all that heavy. True that he cared for me, but it seems like I lost emotions and became a cold person over the years that I was not home. I am more numbed to death and killings than I would admit. Whatever connections he had came (forcefully broke) into the house just last week when I was out and burnt some paper my father hid under his mattress. I was out of the house because I would like to bury him properly in a cemetery, but it is too expensive. The other option is to allow his body to be “properly handled” by the city government. I had to put him in a sack and carry his body out of the city. People looked at me suspiciously, but there I was, walking miles upon miles out of New York, digging dirt with a sharp rock and some sticks I found, and burying my father’s corpse, defiled by the rot by then, using my bare hands. I created a crude cross with a few sticks on the ground. My father is with God now; he can rest. I wish I could bury my comrades left in Europe. They are probably all skeletons and bones by the time I am writing this, littered like garbage instead of what remains of once human beings. Of course, it is an illegal burial, but following the “proper” law is the last thing I am concerned with right now since in this rotten city, “legally” burning my own family in a grave costs three hundred dollars. Another sign of the decay underneath that thin coating of gilded gold.
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It was when I walked back to my house that I found out I had to leave. I took what little belongings I had and left. And became homeless for about three days. I remember trying to seek out other people as lost as me. I thought there were a lot, but I only found none but a single person. He is called Nick. I just met him, and in his sympathy, he took me in when he heard that I was a failed veteran writer. He himself does some writing, although he mostly works on Wall Street. I am still trying to get to know him, but so far, I am trying to find a way I could help out. Nick showed me that, even though he is lost, kindness still exists. I will get to know more about him as time goes on. It has been a long week.