A couple of weeks ago, father announced that he was going to die soon, and so he wanted his children in his house when it happened.
We tried to ask him again and again what happened to him that he was going to die, but he refused to tell us. He kept offering us more wine.
My sister, going through a bad break-up, kept herself locked in her room, alternately sniffling into the pillow and screaming down the phone at her soon-to-be-ex.
My brother would spend around fifteen minutes everyday talking to father, and then he would scoot off for the day to hang out with his old friends from high school. Most times, he would get so drunk he had to be brought back home by a different woman every night, who would give me a look of distaste and disappointment to pass on to my brother, which I would faithfully do the next morning.
I mostly sat in the atrium and tried to work on my seventh first novel, and I would sometimes snipe at father when he passed by me on his wheelchair going ‘meh-heh-heh’ to himself.
We found him dead yesterday morning. He had toppled from his wheelchair and was balanced somewhat upright from a noose that connected him to the bedpost. He was naked and was holding his dick in his hand. Rigor mortis had caught it late, but we could tell what he had been doing from the stains on his hands and the floor.
There was a suicide note as well. It said:
Take a picture to remember me by, fuckheads.