Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction. The here fore used characters belong rightfully to MGM/UA and I just borrowed them. The only profit I hope to achieve with this is the pure pleasure of the reader, so no copyright infringement intended. Please do not sue me, I donít have money and wonít be getting some from this story.
Authorís notes: The story takes place some time after Nick had received and read the letter from his father.
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In loving memory of my father
I hope you can be proud of me, too
A young man entered the cemetery through the huge iron gate. He wore dark clothing, just like everybody whoíd visit the graveyard. He knew exactly where he was going for he had gone this way many times before, right on this day. But this year, on this day everything was different. For on this day it was so much harder for him to walk this way, like it had been all the years before. This year he knew the truth, a truth he hadnít known before and never would have thought possible, never imagined it to be like that.
It rained, but that didnít matter to him, he didnít even have an umbrella with him. It rained, just as if heaven itself would cry, mourn for all the dead beneath it and the man, who walked over the cemetery on this special day to a special destination could not banish the deep and endless sadness and sorrow out of his eyes that was within him.
He walked along rows of gravestones, many different colours of stone and numerous forms, crosses, angels or simple stones, but the man didnít notice, he didnít look at them, his thoughts far away. It was not the gravestones of others that they were directed to, no his goal was the gravestone at the end of the row, set apart a little from the others. And it just was a simple stone, without a cross or an angel, just greyish marble with writings on it. It was this simple stone, the man stopped in front of and he felt his heart beat rising, beat faster and how in his inner self something knotted.
In one hand he held a single red rose, in the other a crumpled envelope. The man simply stood there, he didnít say one word just glared down silently at the gravestone, for he didnít know what else to say.
The rain was still falling from heaven, as if heaven itself would still show its grief for the many deaths, maybe even for this one and the man that stood there and mourned for him.
It was a special day for him. Every year on this day he came here to visit this grave, for it was on this day many years ago that his father had died.
The man didnít know how long he simply had stood there, in the rain and looked down to the grave he visited every year this day. He had come here every year, but never, in none of the passed years he had felt such pain and sorrow while standing here.
Never before in the passed years he had regretted so dearly standing here and looking down at this grave. Never before had it hurt that much.
On the gravestone the name of the deceased had been chiselled into the stone.
The inscription of the name read Jonathan Boyle.
I donít know why I have come here all the years, why I did come here all these years on this day before and I donít know why it is so hard for me to do so now. I donít know why it is so much harder for me now like it had been all the other years before. But I do know the answer, do know the reason for it, Ďcause I hold it in my hand now. It is your letter, your final letter to me, that I am holding in my hands now and only have found the courage to open and read recently.
The truth is, I was afraid to open and read it. I was afraid of that what might be in it and Iíd rather not wanted to read there. For all of my life I have believed to have known you. I thought to know who you were and what kind of man youíve been, only to find out that Iíve been wrong, that Iíve made a mistake in thinking Iíd knew you.
Iíve been mistaken in you, even more, all of my life I have hated you and felt nothing but disgust for the things you have done to us, what you have done to me. I have hated you for what I thought your job and alcohol had made of you, and I could never forgive you for these things. At least not until now. I believed you a bad person, more, a monster that hit and abused his family when having too much alcohol. A monster that hit his son when drunk.
What would I have given for hearing you say one time that you were proud of me, that you loved me for what I have been and become. But you never said it, these simple words never left you lips and I hated you for this even more, for these rejections were much more painful than each of your blows. I only wanted you to be proud of me, I never wanted to fail you, to disappoint you but youíve always given me the feeling that I did. I wanted nothing more than you to be proud of me and to say it, at least once. Iíve always thought you never loved me and never wanted me anyway.
But now I had to realize that I was wrong, that I was wrong in things concerning you and for all this I am so terribly sorry. I am so sorry that we never had the chance to get this mistake out of this world like you wanted to. I know that now, now that I have read your letter. I am sorry that we never had the chance again to talk with each other, at least for a final time. I wouldíve so much wanted to have this one chance and Iíd give anything for it now, to tell you how I felt and how I feel now.
I have read your letter and I have understood.
For the first time in my life I have the feeling to really know you and to have understood you. I understood why you did some of the things you have done, but I so much would want to understand the rest, to talk to you about it. I have now seen the real man you have been.
I so much regret that we didnít have the chance for a new beginning or would never have, I would have so much wanted it; and I know from you letter that it had been your wish, too.
I know now how much you loved me, how proud you have been of me and I hope that you can still be wherever you might be watching me right now. Even if you never told me, for this we never got the chance, I do know it now and I want you to know that I am proud of you too, that Iíd always been. I miss you, Dad, and I would wish for a second chance for us, for a chance to clear out all the differences weíd had.
I always wanted to be like you, youíve always been my role model, the man I wanted to be when Iíd grow up, no matter what you did and I so much had hoped for you to say it at least once, to say that you loved me and that you had been pleased with what I had done and what I have been, that you had been proud of me.
But you always have been that and you did love me, I only have understood it now. But Iíd really wish for a chance for us, a second chance we never had. I truly miss you, Dad.
Nick Boyle put the rose down on the grave and stood up again. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, tears of sadness, grief and loss but also of love, of love for the man on whose grave he stood. He hadnít noticed to have spoken the last words aloud, but nobody had heard them. He was alone on the cemetery.
It was still raining and heavenís tears mixed with his own salty ones. The letter in his hand was even more crumbled, unconsciously he had held it closer to himself. In his eyes there still was the pain of loss, mourning of the many missed chances in his life, of which he especially regretted this one, the chance to talk with his father for a final and last time and to clear everything out. But he had never gotten this chance and he wouldnít get one. Nick glanced one final time down on the grave, then he turned around and left the cemetery.
He had been wrong, for he hadnít been alone on the cemetery. Except him there had been one other person on the graveyard with him, one that had watched him. It had been an older man and heíd stood a bit away from him, so he wouldnít be seen. The younger man had not seen him, but now the man stood where Nick had stood a while ago. He stood in midst the rain, but he didnít got wet by it. He simply stood there now and as the rain was falling on him, while standing at the grave, it became clear that he wasnít physically there. The older man watched Nick leaving the graveyard, just glared after him and in his eyes there was the same sadness recognizable like it had been in Nickís. This man also regretted so many things in his life, especially this one. He regretted too, not to have had the chance to express his true feelings, to have been able to say what he had felt and it pained him deeper than one could imagine. He regretted no to have had the chance for a last talk, for the last talk he wanted to have, before he had died.
ďI am proud of you, my sonĒ, he said silently, his voice filled with pain. ďI have always been, I only have been too much a coward to tell it loud. I am sorry for so many things in my life, but the most for hurting you. I never wanted to hurt you and I regret it dearly. I have always loved you but I could never say it, I wasnít able to. I donít even know why exactly and I am sorry for it. I am so proud of what you have become and of the man you have become, son. You have never failed me, how could you ever do it, you are my son and I do love you.Ē