Episode 70: The Dying Business

** Content Warning! Death-related things and violence :( **

*** Written 7/11 ***

Bad news come clustered. Every day for four days, someone I knew would die.

Each time, it's fresh like hell.

The first day, a puppy I had been feeding for 2 weeks had died.

The second day, news of my half brother having less than 48 hours to live.

The third, a second puppy gone.

The fourth morning, my half brother had passed. For real this time.

Death. Death, all the dang time. And to think, just a day before the first puppy had died, I had been mingling with someone who opened up about his suicidal past. We were vibing and I was nervous and he kept teasing me for being nervous enough to describe a mall as a "market-store" and then after a round of League and more storytelling, I was given a fork-in-the-road situation of, "This is me. This may happen again. Is this something you're okay with?" He was honest. It was my first time hearing something like this. Given a choice like this. Someone you may want to date could take their own life again one day. And it wouldn't be my responsibility to keep him here, he wanted? And I wasn't sure, if I was ready to be ready to lose someone again.

Anyways... you're probably thinking. "She killed those puppies didn't she? Or she forgot to feed them for 3 days straight?" 

So for the past 2 weeks, I fed my neighbors' six puppies every morning while they vacationed. Someone else would feed the puppies in the afternoon/evening. 

At first, the puppers didn't really know me and would bark sooo loudly when they saw me at the gate entrance. Their little furry bodies would crowd against the gate and each other. I feared if I opened it slightly, one of them would deftly escape. Later, I would learn to throw my water bottle in the opposite direction. Have them chase that before I scrambled to open the gate.

That trick only worked 2 times though. They're freaking smart. Or water bottles are super boring toys. :(

Panda, the white and black puppy, would be the rowdiest of them all. She would jump and claw for me the most, leading the pack of puppies. Her excitement unmatched. When I brought out their food, Panda would be the first to snatch any stray bits I accidentally dropped.

Barto used to do that too. Though I know him to be the one to follow me back whenever I returned to scoop Abba (another pupper) her own separate food. He knew where the possible extras were and wasn't afraid to get it. 

A few days before the owners had returned, I noticed how skinny Barto was. Even when there were plenty of leftover kibbles, he wouldn't touch any. In fact, he ate nothing for two mornings. I petted his ribs and asked, "Barto. Why don't you want to eat baby? Why are you so skinny?" He would look up at me with these incredibly sad puppy eyes. His head tilted down. His eyes wide and down casted. 

I'd touch the other puppies' ribs to compare. His was the skinniest. I would go back and scoop him an extra scoop, just for him, and put it right in front of him. He would turn his sad little head and walk away. I was worried but apparently, not worried enough. I convinced myself maybe he would eat when the other person came around to feeding them. And I left, while the other puppies saw the extra scoop and ate it right up. Panda heading the front. I updated Sabrina, my neighbors' daughter, of this via messenger. "Barto didn't eat this morning. He's not eating lately."

On my last dogsitting morning, Barto still wouldn't eat. I was hoping that maybe my neighbors who would return from their trip that evening would know what to do. God, but that last morning, I remember how he followed me everywhere in a very slow, careful walk. Back when he was more excitable, he would follow me anywhere where food was. But this time, I would be cleaning and refilling their water buckets and he'd stay with and follow me instead of eating with his siblings. I would pet him, sensing that he wanted to be with me. I don't know why but I felt that he was very sad.... about something. A reason that I didn't understand. Couldn't understand. 

I walked back and gave him an extra scoop still. "Hey, baby. Eat this at least."

He turned and walked away again. It couldn't be helped. I wish... I wish I could grasp the urgency of this situation had I turned back time. I wish I wasn't as confident as I was that Barto was eating his afternoon meals and that he'd be okay. I wish I hadn't biked away.

Because he definitely wasn't if he died the next morning. 

Sabrina notified me through text. "Ngoc, are you awake? Barto died this morning." 

I was 20 minutes away from an internship call. I didn't cry. My eyes were red but no tears came of it. I was numb with shock. Numb as I told Dad this. He had seen me bike out for two weeks straight for these puppies and I-- I had formed a bond with them. I felt so much at fault. I felt like hell.

He told me, "Let's go right now."

And so I biked out immediately. My left hand gripped three incense sticks and my phone. My right hand steered. My left knee ached.

My neighbors were outside. I greeted them awkwardly, feeling all this fault, but they never put it on me. I apologized over and over. I really didn't know. I couldn't foresee this. I'm sorry that they got back from their amazing family trip and one of their sweetest puppies died.

They took me out to where Barto was buried. His head faced the flowers. His feet faced the gate. I lighted the incense, chanted a death Buddhist mantra half in my head/half out loud, and planted the three incense sticks next to the flowers. I felt empty inside. I felt so fucking stupid.

Because I am. 

And I biked back, right into my internship call as if nothing had happened. 

The next morning, I naturally rose early. Part of my morning habit now from feeding the puppies heh. Mom was hovering over the sink as I greeted her. She turned to me, "Anh Luc only has only one more day or two. Your aunt called your Dad just now."

I know him as Anh Luc, or Brother Luc. My half-brother from my Dad's side. He's 50 and for months now, or has it been a year? He's been battling stomach cancer. He goes by Tony to his children and wife. To the government, he's Long Nguyen.

Anh Luc hid his cancer from Dad for almost a year, fearing that it'd do him no good knowing and when their relationship was never perfect. Far from it. Long story short, my Dad had disowned Anh Luc a long, long time ago. 

"I want you and your kids nowhere near my body or grave when I'm dead!" Dad had vowed to Anh Luc. The reasons for this are damn complex. Dad had grown up with a military-like parenting style from my grandfather. No warmth. Just verbal and physical beatings, and if needed, punishment and fear to keep the kid from messing up. Dad was adamant about Anh Luc going to school, forcing him to only focus on education and almost nothing else. Anh Luc was Dad's sole male firstborn. The first kid that he was actively taking care of for the first time since the Vietnam War ended and since starting a life in America. In Vietnamese culture, the boy is valued hecking highly. They're the ones to continue the blood line. And that's that.

And Dad didn't want one thing out of line. 

There was no room to mess up, Dad probably thought. This was his only son, so he was extra critical and controlling of Anh Luc. That, plus Dad's naturally macho parenting style led to them having a rift. 

A person who grows up getting beaten is likely to be a beater themselves as an adult. "Beating breeds beating," according to 10 Negative effects of beating children | Wow Parenting. This is perhaps why Dad was a child beater himself. However, Anh Luc never beat up his own kids and ended the cycle there. He wanted to be anything but like Dad.

Anh Luc immigrated to the U.S. and only lived with Dad for one year. At 15, he left home, and according to Dad, joined a gang. No amount of convincing from Dad could get him to leave. Eventually, Dad disowned him once nothing could be done which led Anh Luc to leave home for decades. Or maybe Anh Luc had left home for so long that my Dad might as well have disowned him. They never contacted or met in that time. With Dad's harsh, controlling parenting style, Anh Luc probably yearned for freedom. He was probably searching for family he never felt he had in Dad.

I understand, heh.

Dad wasn't ever a warm person. You mess up once, you've messed up forever in his eyes. And it must have been fucking stifling to live under Dad's tyranny. That's certainly what it feels like in my life haha. Though... Mom did say Dad has greatly improved when he had Yen and I. If that's the case, I can't imagine how horribly Anh Luc had it with Dad. 

About a decade ago? That's when Anh Luc started to call Dad. Once every few years or meet up with Dad once in a while. Dad's phone number hasn't changed in the last 40 years ha.

Dad is extremely judgmental. He hates tattoos and earrings on boys. Anh Luc had both. Later, Dad would discover that his grandson would also have both. Dad was furious and disowned Anh Luc a second time with a quick swoop of his unparalleled anger and his quick, angry mouth. 

A mouth that had once uttered, "Kill me then, Ngoc. Shove this knife into my heart if you meant what you said. You think I'm the devil," as his large hands wrapped around mine and made me grip the handle of our kitchen knife, forcing the knife into his chest. "STOP!!" I had screamed, scared. Shaking, that my father would be so cruel as to force my 13 year old self to kill him. Relief as he let me go. I hated him so much that I could hate him forever.

My story here is very incomplete. It's just... I never got to know Anh Luc meaningfully because of this disownment. I only saw him 3 times in my life. Other than that, whenever uttered, his name was like a mistake in Dad's mouth. 

1. The first real memory of him was when he visited us. He was older than my mom by four years so they were always awkward with each other. I felt that awkwardness even as a child. I was nervous then, to see my half-brother for the first time in the flesh. He’s a shorter, younger replica of Dad. I had been playing some game on this fat, super old PC that a family friend had donated to us. Anh Luc noticed and asked me if I had Adobe Flash or CC Cleaner installed. I was 8 or so, so I definitely didn't haha. He was standing for half an hour or more, helping me install both. Telling me how it works and why they're both important. To this day, 12 years later, Yen and I still use CC Cleaner. An absolute essential we couldn’t have otherwise. Welp. Gods. It would be later, when Anh Luc's son, Adrian, came to visit us before his funeral day that we'd learn it was Adrian who introduced CC Cleaner to Anh Luc, who in turn, introduced it to us. Woah. 
2. The second real memory of him was when he visited us again. This time with his two grown kids. A girl and a boy. Dad had engrained in me how much of a sin it was for guys to have tattoos and earrings, how gangster that was. And so I wrote in my journal how disappointed I was that Anh Luc's son had both. I don't know why I felt like being cruel but 11-year-old me went and showed the boy my journal entry I had written about him. I was too cowardly to say it to his face, so I left my journal with him. When they left, I noticed that page was torn out. I instantly regretted doing that. I'm sure his son still remembers me and what I said and I hope he'll forgive me. I definitely don't believe in shit like that anymore but god, it was so wrong of me to write and share that. To this day, Dad still mentions that day as when he vowed he'd never want Anh Luc or Adrian near him even in his death because his grandson bore earrings and tattoos. 
3. The last memory I have of him was when my half-sister, Chi Minou took Yen and I to visit him at his small townhome. He was there alone. Barely 90 pounds. His long sweater hung loosely on his bone-thin frame. A walk so slow and calculated. Every few steps, he’d pause to catch his breath or re-angle his body against the pain. Stomach cancer. That’s what it was. It shouldn’t have been. “He’s only 50,” my mom exclaimed, “too young to go!”  When my Dad first found out, he listened in disbelief, “he’s my son. He’ll make it. I’ll do my healing meditations on him and he’ll get better for sure.” So it was just me and Yen and Anh Luc in his living room. Chi Minou was busy for over an hour teaching a yoga class upstairs. Yen and I struggled to find the words to start. To say out loud to our dying half-brother whom we barely knew. It felt so awkward and every time he talked, he explained that it would irritate his recent stomach surgery. Had it not been for that, looking back, I'd have asked everything I could think of. Yen, who’s cute innocence is unparalleled, asked some of the silliest, shortest but possibly, one of the most important questions ever asked. “Anh Luc, what’s your favorite food?" 

           "Hamburgers. I love hamburgers," he managed painfully, before staring back at the TV screen where an animal show was playing. Another pause before he would return our question to us, "And what do y'all like?" That's actually a good summary of our conversation. We'd ask him questions that he could give short answers to. He'd look at us to respond, maybe comment more, and then return his eyes to the screen. A back and forth. He'd ask us questions too: "What schools do you go to? Does Dad still eat ramen every morning?"

            I wonder if we ever laughed together. Perhaps we did laugh when Yen and I quickly nodded "Yes, Dad still eats ramen every morning." I do remember all four of us, Anh Luc, Chi Minou, Yen, and I taking a photo. I think we were smiling. I could see it in Anh Luc. I could see throughout our many short exchanges back and forth that he was doing his best. Trying his best to be there for the people that he'll see no more. Even if it ached, he had things to say. He is kind. 

            My half-brother is kind. That's probably the one thing I'll ever know about him and know so surely.

            And like my Dad, he... he won't let it go.

            It was both surprising and unsurprising that Anh Luc made sure Dad wouldn't get to be by his bedside in his last moments. Anh Luc didn't even want to see him. After all, Dad had disowned him twice and said the cruelest things he can't take back: "I want you and your kids nowhere near my body or grave when I'm dead!" In the biggest Uno Reverse ever pulled, Anh Luc did it. He Uno Reversed so hard with his last breath.

            That's the thing about saying things that feel GOOD for that moment. Because feeling good doesn't make what you want to say right. And what you want to say? What you want? Why did you want that? Why would you ever want to disown your child? Why couldn't you have been more patient and given him the love and support he needed instead of letting him go and verbally abusing him and blaming him when he was trying to search for family that he never found in you? I've always wondered why I love you as much as I hate you. Why you say the nastiest things to the people closest to you and get away with it. Why do people who love you allow you to get away with it.

            You never admit you're wrong. You never own up when you hurt anyone's feelings.

            Your words, as you want to believe, are always right.

            It felt good, right, Dad? To disown your kid for joining a gang or leaving first or whatever. But not asking him why he joined when he did. It felt good to do it again, right? When you found out your son and grandson have piercings and tattoos? Like that's all it took? You couldn't relent and see past their exterior? Or anyone's exterior in fact. You thought I was a whore for practicing walking on the treadmill in front of our home when I was 5 months out of ACL surgery, just because one of the neighborhood boys was biking back and forth in front of our house? You thought I was showing off my tits or something? You thought Yen was a whore for putting up posters of her favorite Kpop band and when she wanted to take brazilian jiu jitsu lessons more often, you thought she wanted to hug men. But that's part of the sport!

I get my anger from you. In the heat of any moment, I know that I'll know exactly what to say to hurt the people I love the most. I'm the most inspired, most powerful it feels sometimes, when I'm angry and I hate that I got it from you. It's a curse, a gift wrapped in one. I wish that you had wrapped Anh Luc's hurt and shown him you cared like the way you wrapped my right ankle countless times after I sprained it yet again. Maybe things would have been different if you had simply said, "I'm sorry, con" to Anh Luc.

Maybe he would have let you known earlier that he had stomach cancer. Maybe he would have let you come over to his place more often to take care of him and be with him. Maybe he would have called you more and picked up when you impatiently and worriedly called almost everyday after you learned of his cancer. Then again, he was super busy between all the treatments and you were impatient and worried that he could be gone at any moment, mid-treatment. Maybe he would have let you in to see him in his last days. Maybe he would have wanted you to be a part of the process of his burial.

Words open worlds. And just as quickly, words can shut you out of them.

He made sure, you weren't. He left you out.

To the point that we struggled and begged to get the name of his hospital. To get a time. To see him on the day he had died.

And when we finally did, our drive there was full of anticipation. A 50/50 chance of being able to see him according to Chi Minou. "Sometime around 3 PM today."

We got there at 4. On the way, I sneaked looks at you from the passenger's seat, holding the phone and navigating us there. I noticed how your eyes were rimmed red the entire time. Tears would discreetly snake down your cheeks but often, you would wipe at your eyes before they were visible. At one part, we drove past a dead dog on the top of the highway ramp. Dead on its side.

"Either it had jumped out or its owner had pushed it out. This is just-- carelessness. Evil either way," Dad commented. I shivered at the irony.

We practically ran in when we arrived. A young man greeted us at the entrance, masked and sitting behind a long table with a list of patient rooms in his hand. 

"Welcome. How can I help you?" he asked in a kind, warm tone.

I struggled to find the words then. "Um, hi. So I have a family member who just passed away this morning in this hospital. My family, behind me, and I don't know where this patient is located in this hospital. Can you help us find his visiting room?"

"Ohmigosh, I'm so sorry for your loss. Condolences to you and your family. To answer your question, most likely they've been moved right away after they passed. I don't know if I can help you but what is the patient's name?"

"Luc Nguyen. Do you have anyone by that name?"

"Hm, we do not. Does he go by another..?"

 "Er..He passed from stomach cancer. I just know that and that he passed this morning here. Is there anything else we could do to locate him?"

"I'm going to call my supervisor for this. Give me one moment..."

He converses with a walkie-talkie and after a few minutes, gets back to us while we lingered in the lobby.

"So according to my supervisor, we do have someone by the name of Long Nguyen who passed this morning. Stomach cancer. 50. That is him right?"

"YES. That is. Ohmigosh that is."

We looked up at each other, relief. Relief stolen from us when the young man finds through his papers that they're no longer allowing people into Anh Luc's room. I noticed many notes highlighted for that room as I glanced down. 

''I'm sorry but it appears they're no longer allowing visitors for that room today. I'm so sorry. There's nothing more I can do from here unfortunately... And condolences again."

"Hello. I want to see my son. I am the father--" my father interrupts my conversation, pulling out his ID cards. Drivers' License, Insurance, anything else he had in his worn down wallet.

"I just want to see door. I just want to see door to my son's room. Please. Please," he communicates with his weak English. 

His eyes burned bright red. 

The young man behind the desk shifted uncomfortably but gave in. 

"Let me speak with my supervisor again. One moment please. I'll see what I can do," he said kindly.

Moments passed.

"So Long has been moved to the morgue. The original visiting room is vacant right now. If you return here tomorrow morning, you will definitely be able to see him at the morgue. Today is.. not possible unfortunately..."

Dad so badly wanted to see him that he begged to see just the door. That's all he wanted... it broke my heart. I wanted to sob too. Sob that Dad was careless and cruel enough to say what he did to Anh Luc to be in a situation like this but also at how pathetic it all is. You can't even see your son the day he died. We were in the same building as Anh Luc. So freaking close. A 50-minute drive away from home. Dad pushing almost 70 versus his usual 55 mph. It was... awful to be there. To be there, be unsuccessful, beg and press this nice young man over and over again: "Is there anything else that can be done... my Dad really wants to see him today..."

"Unfortunately this is all that can be done today. I'm so sorry."

So we all departed. Heavy hearted.

On the way home, Yen brought up how hamburgers were his favorite meal, so we stopped by a McDonald's drive-thru to grab one. We placed it on our mini-shrine for him. The house was quiet that night. Dad looked on the verge on tears the entire time and for days afterward. I'd check on him more often, randomly hugging him if I notice his eyes especially red. My Dad isn't an affectionate guy but I know how much he loves hugs. Hugs help a little. He's still going through it -- living day by day. And...

the day before Anh Luc passed, I learned that Panda had died. Panda the puppy. Panda died 2 or 3 days after Barto died. My energetic, rambunctious pupper gone. 

They had both died from Parvo and it was something none of us foresaw until it happened. Until my neighbors' took Panda to the doctor, worried too that she would die like Barto, and retrieved the diagnosis and a ton of pills for Panda to fight the onset of symptoms. 

Parvo isn't curable and Panda died inside the home... her ashes today sit in a plastic bag in a brown metal container by their TV. It would be the next Friday that I would bike to their place to properly pay Panda my respects.

I think back about Barto and can't imagine how much pain, discomfort he was feeling that last day I saw him. Pain felt to the point of avoiding food altogether and his attempt at communicating with me that it hurt. And Panda, the one that'd overeat actually -- for her to eat no longer. It must have hurt...

That it hurt a lot, but I didn't see. I didn't and I --

That's the business of dying. 

It becomes everyone's business. Whomever the deceased ever touched, even briefly, it's their business now. It's their business to take it in. To attempt to take in the whole life of the deceased. To recall and relive those memories. See the world new again. A world made new now that they're gone.

Episode 69: one-hour eyeglass repair

***Reader discretion advised!! Super dark and sad and yeah... it's not light-hearted at all. Death. Violence. Abuse. ***

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My favorite pair of glasses broke today. 

They finally broke. By my own hand. 

I flung it to the ground. With great force that all day today, I greatly regret. 

I couldn't stop crying. Sobbing, really, when I realized what I had done. 

I've sat on it. Dropped it countless times right on the lens. I would immediately check for scratches but they would never have a scratch. 3 years with it. Maybe 4? 

I would sit on it. Squish it between the bed and a wall. Always, it would be okay. It's shape held together. Like a promise, I could be as careless with it as I'd want but it would always be okay. 

My favorite pair. You loyal, loyal pair. I-- 

Yet, you finally broke. You finally broke when I wanted you to break. 

You did it. 

You held it together until I finally broke you myself. 

I hate myself and I love you so goddamn much and I wish I could turn back time. Hold back my anger. And leave you out of the argument. Now you're this broken mess that I made.

You've done nothing but help me see the world. Now, all of today, I saw the world without you. This blurry blurry mess of a world that you had helped me comprehend these past 3 years.

I can't stop crying. 

I killed you. I broke you, you unbreakable thing.

I may have wanted you to break in that moment, but I swear, -- god I can't stop crying.

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Today was my half-brother's funeral ceremony. That's where we were headed.

I had waited outside for a long time while Dad got into the car and sat in there for 5 minutes almost, not moving the car out of the driveway. I was waiting for him to pull out so I can close the gates. Yen and Mom were sitting in the back. 

The car finally pulled out. I closed the gate. Sat in the front seat, ready to navigate us to the funeral home. I commented, "hey, what took you so long to pull out of the driveway?" I asked him.

"oh, don't start with me. Don't you dare," he responded as he drove us out to the intersection.

Hecking confused, I asked, "What?? Start what? I was just wondering what took you so long to pull out the car."

"I asked if your mom was in the car yet but no one responded," he said. 

"Wait, what?? Where was mom? I thought she was in the car the whole time."

"I fucking can't right now. I'm turning this car around. We're driving separately, I can't with any of you today," he harshly spat out as he swerved our car a hard right, returning us back home.

"What the heck. Why are you doing this?? We should go to Anh Luc's funeral as one family. Why are you making this harder for everyone, Dad?"

"This is the exact attitude that's going to get us into a car crash. Keep that up, rude child."

"I don't understand!" Half in shock. Half in awe that this is really happening. My father turned us all around and we really came back to our house. He got out of the car, grabbed the keys but I pulled the keys back.

"You can't go. We're going there together as one. This doesn't make any sense. Look at yourself! What's going on? Why are you choosing anger again??!" I asked.

He pulled the keys away from me. Eyes blood shot angry.

"Rude bitch."

He went to unlock the gate. Mom closely followed, frustrated.

I turned around to face Yen. "Do you know why he's like that Yen?"

She responded, "He was asking us if Mom was in the car, except, he turned his head around in the drivers' seat enough to definitely see mom. But he still asked where mom was. I thought it was one of those stupid moments where he's asking something even though he already knows the answer so I didn't respond and Mom didn't respond either because she was busy leaning over to grab something."

"So y'all were just quiet when he asked a question and that's why he got mad? He's crazy for real," I said.

Watching Mom open the gate for him, push it open, and wait by the gate for him to get into his truck and pull it out -- it made me furious. She did nothing wrong. All she did that made him course through his anger was not answering a stupid ass question. Why is she just standing there, looking like the one at fault? Why is she taking this blame again?

I rushed out of the passengers' seat. 

"Mom, you can wait in the car. I'll close the gate for him," I said as I walked by her. I turned my head around to make sure she was walking back before I headed straight for my father.

He was moving to unlock his truck door angrily. When I was 4 feet away, standing by the front of his truck, I bursted out one calm short sentence. 

"You never know when to relent, do you."

"What'd you say huh? Rude ass bitch. Come here," he exclaims angrily as he picks up a 2 foot wooden stick from the ground and I get the hint. 

"Haha, so you're going to hit me now?!" I asked as I dodged his hard throw. It clang to the ground loudly behind me. I looked up after bracing myself and on his gout-ridden ankles, he raced for my neck almost. Somehow, Mom got between me and Dad. 

But she got between us too late, a little after the moment when he screamed into my face: "I'mma fucking punch and slap that rude face, you rude bitch."

I couldn't believe what was going to happen. He wanted to fight me. 

My own father for some reason, looked like he wanted to choke the living daylights out of me. Hurt me. He was really going to do it. He was going to punch my face, the same day we were supposed to attend my half-brother's funeral. His son's funeral service. Here we are.

Inches away from a fight that's only happened to me one other time in my life with him. 

He dared to threaten to hurt me. I'm 20. I'm no longer 12. He dared to do this and in my head, I knew he was capable of it. I was ready for this hurt and ready to fight back should he do it. Yet deep down, I was scared. Fearful for my life. "Should I push it? Should I push it like I did all those years ago?" 

I chose yes. I accepted my anger. He was ready to fight me? Hurt me first? I gotta at least defend. And if he wanted to punch my face for real? I'm not letting him break my glasses, so in a burst of uncontrolled anger, I broke you.

I flung you to the ground. It's better that I broke you first, and not him. I'm not letting him break you, you unbreakable one. 

Was it ego? Was it to make a point? That I broke the one thing I needed most? What fucking point? What was the fucking point? I'm so lost. But it felt so good then. To hear you crack on the ground. Yet, as much as I loved that sound, I broke inside into a million pieces. You really broke. And I felt broken then. 

I was going to burst into sobs. I thought I could depend on you not breaking. "One last time baby. If you could survive all those times, survive this time too, please," I prayed as I flung you. Hard.

I thought too that if you broke, all the better. I'm crazier than this crazy man if I broke you. Yes, that was my point then. I can out-crazy the shit out of you, Dad. You think, you can beat the thing you created? I-- I just. I shouldn't have. 

I never should have ever considered flinging you. God. Fuck this anger. It means nothing if I can't have you. It means nothing if I'm typing through tears and not able to see one word on the screen as I write this blog episode in a sporadic, frenzied craze while Demonslayer's Gurenge replays in the background.

So this is the story of how my favorite pair of glasses broke. 

No. There's no one-hour eyeglass repair. I wish. I pray. That maybe I could salvage what's left of you and make you fit to my face again, but I doubt that that's possible. That you'll ever be as flexible, as strong as you were before I broke you. 

Anger does this. I did this. I did this. 

After I flung you, he looked down at your broken pieces. Mom screamed this loud scream, "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DID IT. NOW YOU CAN'T SEE. CAN'T YOU SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE NGOC?!?!" I really am not any better than Dad huh.

I'm really not. I felt like some poorly written anti-hero then.

Now with everyone's face in a blur, but my dad's face was clear. Getting clearer as he rushed to me yet again, "So you really want to fight huh? Then fight me. Punch me you rude bitch!!"

My confused, angry self, angrier that he had chosen to flip his words onto me. Wow. The audacity. Making me the bad guy. Haha, are the heavens watching? You're missing out. 

But I've learned better. Years of this. My body was trained for this moment to take the verbal hits and do nothing with it. My hands were clenched from wanting to punch him but also to hold myself back. 

If I did it, I'd cost our family everything. The kind of everything that I've costed years and years before. I'm not making that mistake again. Mom pushed me and Dad away though. He walked away. Mom screamed and tugged me to the car, distressed that I had made such a scene. That I was at fault for everything. "Why can't you shut up Ngoc?! Why are you always making things worse?!" she asked. Pleaded. With me again.

All this moment gave me was the chance to say, "You never relent, do you." HAHAHA WOW. 

I just, I couldn't not say it. I felt like if I keep letting this happen. If I keep letting him mistreat the three of us over and over again and always doing what mom says, to shut the fuck up and do nothing about it --- that I would lose my sense of self. That I would dive even deeper into being a fearful person who would grow into someone who does just that if something like this were to happen to me again.

That I wouldn't have the strength to stand up for myself. That I'd be too far into the conditioning to want to stand up for myself. For Mom. For Yen. But every time I do this, every time I say exactly what's on my mind, I make shit worse. I know it. 

Agh. I-- I love too much the taste to say exactly what I feel. What I think. I relished those 3 seconds of saying what I wanted to say to a man that I could only ever hold truths back from. So I loved it. 

The cost was steep. 

My stupidity costed me my favorite pair of glasses. 

I cried later in the car.

I couldn't stop sobbing. Ugly. Nose-dripping. Eyes blurry and wet and hot. Tears that burned their ways down my cheeks. Tears that continue to burn their way right now... agh.

It hit me then, that I broke you. 

That you were broken. There was no going back.

This was your endgame. I was your endgame.

Like I said, this wasn't the first time that he's wanted to physically fight me.

When I was in 6th grade and forgot to call him back to say that I got on my bus ride home. Well. I might have picked up my phone. Or sat on my phone? Theme of the story, I sit on a lot of things agh. Somehow the "call" button was pressed and that day, Dad was furious, because he had heard one of my guy friends' voices on the phone. I forgot to press the "end" button with my butt too I guess. :I

Anyways, that day, he called me a whore. Wow. a 12-year old whore. 

I matured real quick by then hm. And that I'm no longer studying and just chasing guys. 

Literally. Literally, ALL I did back then was study. One slip up of even one male friend's voice and he's turned into an anaconda.

I was angry that day too. That he called me that and I retorted in a way that my disbelieving self only knew how: "I can't believe you'd think of me that way. You're a terrible father!"

He lunged out at me from his bed. Practically sliding off the bed to grab for my head. I dodged then too, shocked AGAIN that this was really happening. "He's going to hurt me," I had thought. 

Somehow, we ended up in the kitchen, my fearful self backing out quickly, walking backwards while he sped towards me. Hungry to make a point that I was a liar. That I really haven't been studying at all and have been chasing guys. In self-defense, I shifted my arms up in a fighting stance. Ready to be hit. This angry, steady chubby 12-year old facing off this 65-year-old muscled man in a white tunic. He had taken it as a challenge then and really thought I wanted to fight him.

"You wanna fight me huh? Really fight me? Then do it."

I was angry. Hurt. Confused. What the HECKED and I wanted to, in that moment, hurt him as much as he had hurt me with his cruel words.

I went for him. A poor punch then, perhaps. But I did. But he went back. He punched me. Again and again. My arms. My ribs. Not hard enough to bruise. Just hard enough for me to yelp out. I was sloppy. Leaving too many openings even as I tried to be fast on my feet. At one point, I fell to the ground. Crying. Angry that I was crying. And angry that I had let it become a fight. Angry that I lost even though, no way would I ever win. Not against my father. Not against him.

I'll never win. Not physically because I don't actually want to hurt him. I'll never win if I want Mom to have a peaceful night's rest when the only place he wants her to sleep is beside him. I've accepted that already. So I won't win. 

Fine.

So today, when mom tugged me back to the car, my pair of broken glasses in one of her hands, I shrugged her off. Half-jogging to Dad while she chased me, ready to pull me back but I was out of her reach. I was too fast.

I made it in front of him. "Dad, we have to go to the funeral service. Anh Luc wouldn't want this. Let's go Dad."

The words were hard to slip past my lips. I wanted to vomit.

He looked up. Smirked. Resolute. "Say sorry to me first. Apologize for your rudeness and all the rude shit you said just now. Go inside, to the shrine, apologize to your ancestors too." He waved his cigarette around, putting it back into his mouth, head tilted up. He knew my limits.  

I scoffed out loud. Hahahaha. I couldn't believe it was ME that had to apologize. All the effort it took for me to say the next few words. Fine. I'll never win. So I ought to give in this time. Ngoc, do it, do it or you'll make shit worse. God. That's what I do huh. I make shit worse?

"I'm sorry. I said it. But you gotta tell me. What am I sorry for? What did I do wrong? What am I supposed to apologize for?" 

I was millimeters from slipping up. At the amount of bullshit I was hearing. 

He couldn't say anything. Just silence. So I pressed on, lawyer-like, deadly. Because yeah, sometimes I slip and throw a lemon at the ground, or today, my pair of glasses, but when I'm at my angriest. At disbelief-level angry, I'm as calm as the ocean. Ready to ask all the questions to make my case. No need to point out who was wrong if I could prove to every single audience, even you, that you're wrong. That you can't pin it on me, haha, even if you really want to. I have all the words, when I'm at my angriest, if I really wanted to -- I could make it hurt. A lot. And I really wanted it to. 

In that moment, my words came out in a blur. All I know now was that every word struck. It felt fucking good. "Why would you throw that stick at me? Why would you want to hurt me? Your own daughter? You said I'm rude to you, but all I said was this one thing. This one true thing that til now, you haven't admitted yourself -- you never want to relent. You love escalation don't you? You really wanted the stick you threw at me to strike right? If you didn't, then why would you whip it out at me as quickly as you did?" As I striked at him with my questions, he walked away. 

"And what am I apologizing for again? Tell me. What did I do wrong? What am I wrong for saying? I gotta know what I did wrong if I were to be a better daughter, shouldn't I?" 

He walked away still. Into the garage.

Silent.

Mom said it was enough. I was enough. I'm a lot. God, I know. Just, don't be a jerk! And don't threaten to hurt me or my family. And you're good. That's all you gotta do. Bare minimum here.

I'm at the top of my game when I'm super angry. Maybe that's what I ought to do. Fight against forces that make me angriest so I can be at my coolest haha, but NO. THAT'S DUMB. NO. 

At some point, he pulls out his shotgun from the cabinet on his left. He places it in front of him on his table after returning from the garage.

Finally. I was scared enough to shut up. But not scared enough to not move.

I tugged mom's phone from her grasp and took a video of him. He lifted the gun and twirled it. "Take a video of me. Do what you want."

I'm done. That's what he threatens Mom with every single damn day. 

Mom told me many times that he's threatened to kill us all ever since we were young. 

I was 8 but I remember how fucking scary it was to hear your own dad, in the dead of night, threaten to kill the whole family if Mom didn't accept his demands. Didn't accept his lies for truths. 

I hated him then. But somehow, despite hearing that, I could immediately go back to sleep. If anything happens, let me just be asleep when it happens. I wished.

I-- people look at me. And they see this happy, smiley girl. And gods, yes. That's who I want to be. I want to be dedicated to making the world a brighter, happier, more pleasant place to live haha. I want to be that person you run into on elevator who asks about your day because I care about your day. But... this wish to make the word a brighter place comes from this intensely dark place inside me. 

From all the hurt, the darkness, the sadness that comes from living with an abusive father. Where our lives have been threatened but not yet taken in the past 2 decades.

I'm 20 now. 

I'll be 21 soon.

My friends have asked if I'd leave the house if I could. And I would. But i'd be leaving Yen and Mom behind. He'd always be able to find us haha. Our small nail salon. That's our family sustenance. That place will always be here. And so the issue gets more complicated in-- how do we escape?

How do Yen, Mom, and I escape? 

And my glasses are still broken. And I need new ones. And my back kind of hurts now from leaning too close to the laptop to see the words I'm typing sans glasses.

But thank gods I can type without looking, so I half-trust, half-not in myself. Welp.

In the car, when we finally managed to get into separate cars. I couldn't stop sobbing. 

My glasses were broken. I effed up. I let me anger take over me again. 

But if this were to happen 10 times, let's say. How could I hold it in all 10 times? How could I let my own father continue to make a big shitten deal out of any small mistake, mishap, any of us make? It always feels like walking on a millimeter of glass with him. Any misstep and any of us will drown into the white currents beneath us. 

I keep drowning. 

And I'm 20.

And I can barely tread for a minute.

My glasses broke today. I know. I keep saying this.

But IT SUCKS. AND I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT. AND I REGRET IT. I MUST NEVER. ever. 

If I'm ever angry again -- I must never throw my resources away. 

My half-sister was right. I got my anger from my Dad. 

I'm just like him. But also, I'm not. 

I'm not like him. 

I know that my anger is capable of hurting people. So I suppress it when I feel it. He-- he chooses to let go. He doesn't relent. He loves the thrill. The aftermath. When he lets his anger out on the people he loves the most, knowing exactly how much he's hurting them. 

He can calculate down to the ounces of pain he's inflicted.

Blue-blooded b-----

The Anime That Played in Ngoc's Head