Sins of the Father

You hear a loud crash from above. It sounds vaguely like violent thunder. The odor of burning ash fills your nostrils as your eyes flutter. Your vision is blurred at first. You wipe off your face, reach around to find your hat, and turn over. That's when you freeze, and you finally realize you're not alone.

In the moment, you're still dazed, and I'm questioning how this is possible. It shouldn't be. You shouldn't be here. As you try to shake off the grogginess, that feeling of being on a bender that never ended, you mumble. That's when you hear your mixed-up sounds. Trying to clear your throat won't help you. It takes a little bit to get yourself together and for things to start working correctly.

I tell you it'll be alright. I've been there. Then I remember how pissed I am. Why? How? And then I go back to why. You aren't supposed to be here. For so many years, I expected that destiny would mean us being separated. I even planned on it, made sure that when it happened, you had all the tools and were the type not to come here. And still, you ended up here.

You sit there and listen to me rant for several minutes, and I use some choice expletives to voice my feelings about you ending up in such a godforsaken place. I question the roads you went down. The choices you must have made since the last time we saw each other. I always knew that this was where my story took me, but how did yours end in such a way that you would find yourself in this place?

"Jesus, I ought to throttle you!" I scream at the top of my lungs as you look at me, bewildered, still coughing up the crap you swallowed when you landed.

You look at me, so shocked, so amazed that I'm standing here. I forget for the moment what it means for you to be here, and I offer you a hand. It takes you some thought before you finally take my hand, and I pull you up.

After you dust yourself off, you stand there, looking around. Finally, you can start to speak, albeit hoarsely.

You ask where you are.

I shake my head, staring in disbelief.

You give me that look that questions what I'm shaking my head about. In that moment, it's like old times. But it isn't old times. It's been fifteen years since I left. Fifteen years since the last time I held your hand in mine.

Ahhh. There it is. Your cognitive functions are starting to catch up with your situation. You look at me, shaking your head. You're finally realizing the gravity of your situation.

At first, you're hesitant. You shake your head a bit, as if denying what your eyes are seeing. Yes, it's me. I saw the words, as if to casually acknowledge that I'm there. But we both know there's no way we should be standing there together.

You ask, "Dad, is that really you?"

I put my hand on your shoulder and tell you that I'm real. I know something that you don't. But you're still shaking off cobwebs. From experience, you're doing better than I did when I arrived.

Again, you spin around, looking everywhere like a cat chasing its tail. Now, maybe you're starting to understand why I'm not exactly happy to see you. As you look up into the sky, hearing the howling in the distance, then the inevitable shrieks, your face changes. It's less questioning and more accepting. You're finally starting to get it, and you stop and stare at me, pushing a finger into my chest repeatedly.

"How?" you ask. "How are you..."

You stop because you know the answer. It's not that I'm anything new, different, or mysterious. This has nothing to do with me. No. This is about you.

"Am I..."

I relent and tell you. Yes. You're dead. To get here, you have to be. That's the only way in, and unfortunately, there's no way out.

"And this..."

You don't say it, but I can see it's starting to resonate. The wheels have done all the turning they're going to have to do. As you look up and then around one final time, you look at me and ask, "Dad, where are we?"

You know where we are. I can see it on your face. You're giving me that same worried face you always gave me when you did something wrong. The sheer terror in your eyes is different this time. As you finally started to understand what had happened to you, you realized that if you were standing there with me, in this place, then I was telling you the truth all those years ago.

"Is this...?"

"Hell?"

You shake your head, as if you really don't want me to admit to the obvious. But I do. As the reality sets in, you look stunned.

"What do you remember?" I ask you.

You shake your head. It was like that for me too. For the first few decades, things are a confusing mess. When I tell you that, your face turns to one of confusion.

You ask me about the "decades."

The thing you'll have to learn, is that time is different in here than it was on Earth. Whether it is because of where we are, or there's some break in how it's calculated, I can not answer for you. But, while you've been here for what feeels like less than an hour, there's already been a week pass on Earth.

At least that's what I tell you. Figuring it all out is hard to do from here. It's not like we see the sun, the moon, or a noral rotation of things that we can use to calculate time and translate it accurately to what we remembered.

You begin to fidget, you begin to axiously fidget around, fretting like a woman would. It's weird. Even you don't like it. But, you aren't someone with any real sins. Not the kind we expect would get you sent here. So, you're beginning to wonder how.

No, it won't matter if you weren't supposed to be here. You're here. That's the cosmic joke of it all. With all the parental effort in the world, somehow, you still got yourself thrown in hell.

"I'm so confused. I converted, took communion, went to church at least twice a month. I've gone to confession in four different countries," you tell me as you struggle to figure out the whys of it all.

Then, as if by some miracle, some grandly designed revelation befalls you. There it is. Answers. You're starting to understand the roads to hell are truly paved with good intentions. It's not just a saying. There are a thousand dammed souls here, all filled with memories of their good intentions.

No, that's not it you say. It's something else. And the answer comes from the question itself. Why you wonder did it take so long to realize it? You throw it quickly in my face that I'm supposed to be the crafty one.

And your right. Even before you ask, I start to see the truth of it all. And I was right. You're not here because of something that you did.

"Dad," you ask. "How did you know that I'd be here?"

And that's when it hits. The ultimate punishment. You were here because of me. You're paying for the sins of the father.