The grandpa I never will have

Imagine lying in bed, awful pain shooting through you, the same pain that emerged many years ago. Imagine living that way every day, every night.

Wouldn't you want to just go? Just leave? Just escape?

The grandpa I never had, and never will, makes his escape from pain tonight. It will be slow and painful, and probably make him wish his escape was later on, convincing himself he could get through a few more years.

But the worst thing is not him dying, or his pain, but the fact that he hasn't seen his daughter in thirteen years since his second daughter's funeral, and he has never seen his only granddaughter or grandson. Speaking of which, none of his children will be visiting most likely. Two are dead, two have become outcasts, and two live nearby but probably won't come anyway.

The last face of family he will see is one of his sisters, depending on which comes last.

And for a moment you think that his escape would free you from the dreadful path your mother has to walk, knowing a man so vile.

But then you also feel upset and angry.

Why couldn't I meet him? Why can't he see his one and only granddaughter, thousands of miles away, leading a great life?

The world is so cruel because of the people in it.

Goodbye, grandpa. Though you were never a grandpa in my eyes, and I was never a granddaughter in yours, I'll let you have that title on your last day.

Goodbye, the grandpa I never had, and never will.

Goodbye.