" You can't be here right now," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes and a shiver caressing my spine. Behind me, with his arms firmly engulfing my torso and his head resting on mine, was a man I'd believed to have left in my memories long ago. The only response I received to my feeble demand was him tightening his grip, now on the borderline of uncomfortable. Like a caged bird with clipped wings, I released a muffled whimper and shifted in his hold, eliciting a reaction from him. He pulled away ever-so-slightly, his indifferent gaze lowering to meet my wide sapphire orbs. Utter silence pursued.

   I perused his features, searching for a trace of the man he'd once been. His eyelids drooped and his chestnut brown eyes were dull and empty. His face, which once flourished with life, was now void of emotion, with a vacant stare plastered on it. His luscious locks of raven hair were disheveled and thrown carelessly about, and his pale complexion brought a striking contrast to the pink tinted hue present on his cheeks, evoked no doubt from his current drunken state. His thin lips were parted slightly, the proximity of our stance allowing me to detect the overwhelming stench of alcohol on his breath. I scrunched up my nose in disgust and dipped my head into the crook of his neck, seeking refuge from the liquor only to encounter the burnt scent of cigarettes.

   "Please go. Mom doesn't want you here. Ever," I mumbled against his neck, allowing a single salty tear to escape and slide down my cheek. It fell and made contact with his skin, and he jerked back abruptly as if the liquid had burnt him. His glassy eyes then shone with unshed tears, flashing from woe to fury in the midst of a second.

   "Let your mother rot in hell! If I want to be with you, I can. No wretch will keep me from my  little girl!" he roared, his voice cracking from the immense emotion. I stood for a moment, stunned from the outburst, the faint lapping of waves heard from afar consuming my thoughts as they swirled aimlessly about. As soon as his face had contorted into one of distress it had smoothed just as quickly back into one of placidness, about as vivid as the asphalt beneath our feet.

   Drawing a quivering breath, I once more returned to my calm demeanor, reminding myself of the task at hand.

   Practically inaudibly I muttered, "I'll see you tomorrow, OK? Just... go home. Sleep. You need it."

   Pulling him into the tightest embrace I could manage, I leaned in and whispered weakly into his ear, "I love you." Kissing him on the cheek, I assured him of my empty promise. Limply dropping my arms from around his neck, I gazed into his muddied chestnut brown pools once more before stalking briskly off and climbing up the stairs back into my apartment, not bothering to linger and witness his reaction.
............
    That night, lying in my bed, I stared up at the ceiling and pondered of our fleeting encounter, wondering if I had truly done the right thing by cutting my ties with him. A flood of anguish swept through my body at the startling realization of how detached he was from all of it, and I began to weep softly, pitying his crippled spirit. My tears led me to my slumber that night, one filled with flashes of his face, sullen and twisted in remorse. One that prevented me from hearing the screeching of cars coming to a stop just at the end of the block, followed by the sickening crunch of metal intertwined with a string of profanities from those involved in the collision. One that ultimately sentenced my father to his early demise.

............
   Although it took me a while to accept it, the truth is, the man who died that night wasn't my father. The headlines of all the local newspapers might have had his name on them in bold print, but the individual they were referring to had, metaphorically speaking, passed away decades before. Gradually, elements such as weariness and repugnance had integrated themselves into his entity, derived, no less, from his childhood of perpetual chagrin and opprobrium. Perhaps if he'd been nourished by the ideals of an average household, he'd have grown to be a different man, but the values instilled within him were far from exemplary, and since the divorce, his very essence shackled by sins of varying degrees of severity. He was a stranger, sculpted a foreigner by his unfortunate choices. How I ached to have aided him in carrying the burden of his sorrows, how I longed he would have chosen me. But ultimately, however grievous it may be, he made the choice not to confide within his own flesh and blood, but rather in a chilling solitude and shattered shots of vodka.