humansofnewyork:
“My dad brought me here at the age of seven. My mom stayed back in Jamaica, so it was just me and him. He was very strict. It was cultural, mostly. He’d served in the military back home. So he controlled all areas of my life, school, sports, socializing. Nothing was ever enough for him: not the first place medals, not the honor roll, nothing. He tried hard to break me down. He’d wake me up at 3 AM to go running. He’d make me kneel on the floor all night. And he’d never let me speak back. He intimidated me into silence. I left the house when I turned eighteen. I got a job as a pharmacy tech. I got my own apartment, but I still lived nearby. One day I was driving to work, and I saw him walking to the bus stop. So I pulled over and picked him up. The ride was only ten minutes. But there was a different energy. He actually talked to me. And he let me talk back. He told me things about his life. He talked about how stressed he felt. Things got better after that day. I’d occasionally drop by the house. I introduced him to my girlfriend. He’d tell jokes and laugh. We were beginning to form a relationship. On the morning he died, I actually drove past the crime scene without realizing it. My phone was turned off because it’s not allowed at work. When I finally turned it on, I had several missed calls from him. Each time he left a voicemail: ‘Alex, pick up,’ ‘Alex, please come get me,’ ‘Alex, I need a ride.’ The only time he didn’t leave a voicemail was the very last call. He’d been shot in the neck while walking to the bus stop. I always wonder if the last call was while he was bleeding out. The next few months were surreal. I felt like I was sleepwalking. And I felt responsible. He’d called me for a ride and I’d been right around the corner. I ended up quitting my job. I went to a recruiter’s office. And I punished myself the same way he’d have done it: I joined the Marines.”
