I couldn't breathe. I saw myself running desperately around the house, not knowing what to do. I could hear my mother's screams from the bedroom as I ran back and forth, racking my brain for something – anything – that I could do to help. I ended up finding nothing and standing rigidly in the doorway, my mind blank. I watched my mother, bent naked over my father, pump the heels of her palms into his chest repeatedly as he lay motionless on the carpet. Every so often she would plug his nose and blow hard into his mouth, between frantic pleas for assistance to triple zero, and Dad would let out a low, uncontrolled, bestial groan, but never moved. Once when she did this, a blood vessel ruptured and I saw the red liquid glisten down his cheek. When the paramedics showed up, the only thing I could think of to help was to run out into the street and wave at the ambulance to show them where to go. When the paramedics got inside, we were directed downstairs, where we waited for the longest fifteen minutes of my life. Several times I remember hearing the sound of a flat-line, and pacing back and forth telling myself not to panic. My mother and I rode to the hospital in the ambulance, and two or three hours of waiting later we were told there was nothing more they could do. We were asked if we wanted to see him one last time, but I couldn't bear the thought of remembering him that way – I had already seen enough. A few days later, I wrote a poem which I read at his funeral. I made a room full of people cry, but not me.
This happened over a year ago and is still vivid in my mind. I should have done something, but I didn't know what. I still don't. When I was younger, maybe two or three, my father used to take me to parties and sit me on a table to sing for him and his friends. Back then, I was his little girl, his trophy. Going through primary school, we began doing different things together. We went to the zoo a lot, and Dad often took me golfing with him on a Saturday. When I was old enough, he's let me drive the cart, but as I got older, we gradually began doing less and less together. When adolescence hit, I became something similar to what people commonly refer to as the 'Princess Bitchface Syndrome,' and he and I were constantly fighting. He had a remarkably short temper when it came to some of my comments, and this often led to an argument which quickly turned into a verbal assault on both sides. I remember him saying on more than one occasion, 'I love you. Why don't you like me?' and as this was generally after a quarrel, my reply would be either cruel or unspoken.
For days, it seemed as though Dad would come noisily through the front door the way he did every night, until the stark reality of the past events pierced through the shroud of surrealism that had been my refuge. A month later, I met a boy called Beau, who I quickly became friends with and soon after began dating. However, being in a relationship became almost terrifying once true feelings had been established. I soon found myself fretting over the possibility of losing not just Beau, but everyone who mattered to me. The fear had me convinced that I wouldn't be able to cope with losing anyone else. I developed a system of dealing with the pain, whereby I completely shut out anyone who hurt me, leading me to either think nothing of them, or take nothing they said seriously, so that maybe, if something were to ever happen to them, it wouldn't have the full effect on me. Even before all this I was an emotional wreck, and would beat myself up over nothing on a daily basis. My self-loathing often lasted for periods of up to six months, and left me wondering why I could never simply let myself be happy. Seeing what I'd seen had stolen a shred of innocence that can never be recovered.
My father died on March 20th, 2008. This is the first time I've really thought about the past events and how they've affected me. Despite everything that I witnessed that night, one thing stands out clearly in my mind. It was the one time I remember my dad saying 'goodnight' to me, and me responding without malice. Maybe I'm still his little girl.