Elliot

I could smell that familiar smell. It crept its way up my nose and haunted my senses. I could compare my feelings at that moment to either waking up in a cold sweat or to taking a beating from a group of guys. Maybe it was a little bit of both. 

To me it smelt like death, but others would say the smell was a combination of coffee, cigarettes, eucalyptus plants and marijuana. It's a smell that has stuck out in my mind all of my life. Every other weekend I dreaded this smell as a child. The one that would make me feel nervous, sad and sick all at the same time. When it enters my head now I can feel it lingering in my nostrils. 

The last time I smelt this particular scent was more than two weeks ago. Though I've returned to the house that contains the scent many times, it has never bothered me as much as it did on my last visit. My last visit, however, was far different than any of the others. 

The last visit reminded me of what it was like to be a child again. The last visit broke me, shattering what was left of the little respect I had for the man living inside of this house. 

I could handle being slapped around and bruised, certainly, it's all I've known. I could handle being called a faggot and an idiot too. I could handle the fiercest abuse 20 years had to offer. The one thing I couldn't handle, after countless attempts to reach out to this man, was the fact that he couldn't accept my love. He will take my company these days, but he will always reject my love.

For the past six months, every time I've told him that I love him it's been returned with silence. When I confronted him, he said he couldn't tell me that he loves me. 

Maybe it's his guilt. Maybe it's his selfishness. Maybe he just doesn't know what love is, I often struggle with the concept myself. Whatever the reason is, whether it's good or not, the fact that he can't use the words "love" and "you" in the same sentence towards me crushes my heart. 

The scent of my father is still strong beneath my nose, and that's why I can't answer when he calls. That's why I won't visit. That's why I'm not around to help fight his loneliness and depression. This is my vengeance. I don't care if he dies before I ever see him again. I need him to tell me that he loves me, and when he says it I want to hear honesty in his voice.

Until then he'll just be a ghost to me, the fading stench of evil. As twisted as his mind and soul,  he's knotted my emotions, and I won't be free until he unties them.