I Forgot How Much I Loved Urbex – By PapaFargo
It’s, you know, okay? We never really got on. I mean, it sucks. I don’t want my dad to die and I feel really bad for my mom and for all the people he actually cared about in his life but we weren’t really close.
But we were talking the other day and he said that he had a regret that he wanted to get off his chest. I thought he might say the physical abuse or that he was never home or that when he was home he treated me like an employee instead of a son. You know, normal stuff.
No. “I regret that I didn’t tell you I believed you about Brandon.”
And it all flooded back.
I’d repressed those particular memories and done so very well that I had completely forgotten about the day he and I snuck into the old abandoned warehouse and only I came out.
I’d forgotten the way his voice changed when he touched the weird flickering shadows on the wall of the basement and that I didn’t doubt him for a second when he said with terror dripping from every letter, “I’m stuck.” He was always the kind of person to play jokes but this? It was immediately apparent that something was wrong.
He pushed at the wall with one foot to try and pry his hand away. I rushed over to help him and he yelled “Don’t touch the wall” before shoving me away. “I can’t get my foot off now either.”
He looked at me as I put my arms around his chest, careful to avoid the wall, and pulled. I could feel his hot, wet breath on my face. You could see the whites of his eyes all the way around his brown irises until he winced with pain. “My arm is going to come off, stop!”
And I did. I shouldn’t have. I should have pulled and let his arm rip off and dealt with the consequences. Maybe it would have freed him. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to watch.
I’m breathing hard now, thinking about it. We stared at each other. This wasn’t normal. Something was unnaturally wrong about this.
And then I felt him lurch.
He screamed as his whole body lurched a couple of inches toward the wall. His hand and foot disappeared into the sticky, almost oozing shadow, where the wall should have been.
Screaming, shouting. Incoherent fear. Pulling. Pain. His, not mine. Having to stop wrapping my arms around him to pull him because we were too close to the shadow on the wall now and I’d touch it too. Eventually he tried pushing with his other leg, his other hand. Screaming. Wailing. Both of us. Then just me. His face engulfed in the wall, just his back and the back of his head sticking out.
Silence as I watched him completely sucked into the wall.
The darkest of the shadows vanished.
And I blacked out. I don’t think I went unconscious. I think it was just my brain protecting itself as I went gibbering back home.
I still don’t remember the following week but now I remember people telling me about it. I’d blocked it all out. All of it. They didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t have believed me. Brandon was missing. They’d searched the old abandoned building and not found him or anything strange. They assumed he’d been hurt while we were urbexing and something had happened.
Some people assumed I’d hurt him.
We moved. I had forgotten we moved out of state because of me. Because of everything that happened at school. That the beatings I got were because of this. I remembered the bullying but hadn’t remembered why.
And today, after a minute or two, dad gently prodded me. “I know you forgot about it but…” and I interrupted him by breaking into tears for the next half an hour or so. I couldn’t talk. I remember his face. His screams. His voice. I remember it all and I can’t even begin to explain how horrible it was. Is.
I’ve broken down several times writing all of this. Had to stop, restart a couple of hours later. I actually started this right after visiting dad three days ago and haven’t been able to get out of my own mind enough to go see him until today when I realized that what he said was that he believed me. He believed me. Nobody had believed me. They’d ridiculed me. They’d told me that the mind plays tricks in terrible situations. That when I blacked out I had an episode. I’d seen therapists my whole life (though the focus shifted away from Brandon when I started forgetting).
He believed me and I wanted to know why. And I wanted to know why he didn’t tell me.
But wouldn’t you know it. Pancreatic cancer does some really sucky stuff as it spreads through your body. When it’s stage IV when they find it you literally have weeks left to live.
Dad’s in a coma. He lapsed into it today. Mom had tried to call but I’d apparently let my phone die. I’ve been distracted but I feel bad because that scared mom. Last she saw me I was driving away to my hotel, bawling my eyes out from remembering.
He might wake up. He might not.
I’m going to hang around as much as I can until he passes.
Then I’m going back. I’m going to research the place. I’m going to find out everything I can. See who’s still there who used to be there. Going to figure out how to stop breaking down when I think about it.
And I’m going to go back to where the shadows were.