There was a knock on the door, the car door. “Mister, hey mister! Wake up! Can you move your car? We’re tryna play ball! Hey mister!” The older man slowly inclined his seat until he was upright. He rubbed his eyes, and the child who was looking in on him froze. The child saw his hands, his face, his shirt, the stains, and the child darted away like he was late for dinner. But the old man only looked in the rear view mirror and saw a pair of tired eyes that seemed scared like they knew a secret no one else knew. They were lost.
From the outside, the car looked like it had not ran in years, and looked like a home for the homeless, which it might as well have been. On the passenger seat floorboard was a graveyard of coffee cups and cigarette buds, and the dashboard was a trashcan for just about anything. And on the steering wheel were the old man’s hands, covered in the blood of another man. But this did not seem to bother him much, not in a sadistic way, however, because at the moment nothing seemed to bother him, or let alone make him happy. The bloody hands trembled, though, as they turned on the ignition, and all he could think about were the eyes of the man he had killed, the look of loss in his own eyes, and where he was going next.

A young man, a family man, stood amidst his warm playground of a kitchen with his head up, a slight grin, and a glass of the finest chardonnay resting in his hand like it was meant to be there. His three healthy children ran about, playfully chasing each other, giggling, through the steam of the italian dinner the man’s wife was cooking up. The floors were shiny, the hanging lights, refrigerator, and sink all made of stainless steel, and on the kitchen table was a fancy bowl of fake fruit. The house was fit for a millionaire, and the young man who stood in the middle of his self made, american dreamt, quintessential creation, was indeed grateful. But tonight, he could not help but to think back on his own upbringing, and of his own father, a father who had not given him the best life, but was there for him, unlike many of the other rolling stones that seemed to be at every home of his childhood friends. For tonight would not be here if it were not for his father, his father who gave him a home and a mother and food, and above all, freedom. Running around the streets at night, scaring the girls with kisses and playing wall ball with dirty hands and scraped knees as the sun would set over the city horizon, the sky would turn a certain blue that can only be experienced in childhood memories. And they would play for hours, until his mother would ring the bell that called the children home for dinner. But when he returned home, there would be an empty bottle on the floor and his father standing taller than both his mother and older brother, the smell of whiskey overpowering the pork chops on the table. One time, he came running home crying after getting in a schoolyard fight, only to be greeted by a father reeking of sour beer, the way it dries after a while. But the father was not mean, nor was he negligent; he never was. The father embraced his son, bringing to him warmth and comfort, without any words spoken. “I hurt a kid, pop.” The father held his son by the shoulders, then hugged him again, and that was that. Their relationship was one of misunderstanding and sympathy, and no matter how ugly it may have been, there was always a subtle solace. “Dinner’s ready!” The young man snapped out of his flashback, where he was met by his beautiful family, and all he could think about was where his father was, his addict of a father who he had not seen in two years.
The bloodied old man now sat in the crappy car across the street of a large brand new house, looking out of place as the dark blue sky turned black. Like a spy, he could see into the house a few happy children running to a dinner table, a mother placing a steaming dish in front of them, and a father sitting down with a glass of wine. When he saw the face of the young man his heart chilled and warmed and twisted and rose to his throat, as he looked at the face of his own son, his son who he had not seen in two years and who did not know that his father was sober. A tear rolled down his cheek, but he quickly composed himself and sat up straight. He was at the lowest point of his life, and now his only hope was to beg his own son to protect him, to take him into his perfect life, to forgive him and help him find an escape from the horrible nightmare he was now in. Taking a deep breath, the old man opened the rusty car door with his bloodied hands.

There was a knock on the door, just before the young man ate a forkful of spaghetti that was probably too hot. The dog barked, and the children were innocently excited. “Who could that be?” asked the wife in a worried tone. With a concerned look and careful movements, the young man pushed back his chair and made his way to the door. He could see a large, slouched over figure through the warped glass, and it made the hair on his arms stand. When the door opened, the young man’s stomach shot up into his throat, then anger shot through his veins, as a son looked into the eyes of a lost father. “Son,” said the trembling father, and before he could speak another word, his son stepped outside and slammed the door behind him. “What are you crazy? I haven’t seen you in two years, my wife hasn’t seen you in seven, and my kids- you haven’t even met my kids! Your grandkids! And let me guess, you’re loaded right now? A little bit of the bottle before you come to steal from your ‘beloved’ son?” Tears were forming in the father’s eyes, and they looked no longer lost, but in pain. Suddenly, the son stopped berating his father, and a look of sadness and sympathy soon began to show. In his mind, the son envisioned his days as a kid, his father comforting him, tucking him in to sleep at night. “Dad,” the words slipped softly off his lips, and the two embraced each other, hugging like they had twenty years before. “I’m sober. Two years.” They hugged tighter.
“What are you doing here?” asked the son with grace in his voice. “Son, oh God, I’ve messed up son...” his voiced trailed off, as memories popped back into the son’s head, memories of his mother running out the door screaming, her face red with a hand print, his father holding a beer. Suddenly, a familiar anger slowly pumped through the son’s veins. “...I had to do it, I couldn’t stop...it was too late...” “What in God’s name are you talking about?” “Didn’t you hear me?! I killed a man! With my hands, these hands!” The son looked scared, dumbfounded. They both stood now facing each other, a father who had wronged his son for so many years, and a son who now stood with the opportunity to forgive. And at that moment, the father looked passed his son and into the house, at the happy children and beautiful wife, and into his son’s eyes where he saw a real man who was ready to forgive him after years of recklessness. It was at that moment, that the father realized his son had already given him the greatest gift by becoming a better man than himself. It was at that moment when the father realized that he could not ask his son for anything more, that he could not place another burden on him. “Dad, if you need help...I mean I’ve got the kids here...but I know a guy...” “No, son. I just...I just came to say goodbye.” The son gave a faint grin, and his father knew by his eyes that he understood, that he understood something.
Inside, the family was enjoying the home cooked meal, and the young man came back inside, closing the door to the outside world. Before returning to the table, he looked back outside through the thick glass; he saw a large man running down the street, into the blue fading sky, into a free world. Blue and red sirens shined from the horizon. The young man turned around and returned to his family at the table. “Who was that daddy?” His kids were curious, his wife nosy. His eyes grew moist, and a smile grew on his face, and a warm rush through his blood.