My father used to tell me as a child "So long as man lies to himself about the meaning of paradise, there can be no such thing." He spoke of times long ago and of all the tidbits of information he was more than willing to share with his only son. I would sit by his huge, hairy calves and hold the invisible hand of my only friend at the time. Father's voice was booming, but kindly so, haunting and mesmerizing so much like folk music's drums. He'd set me up on his knees and hold me close to him; we would share our body warmth. We did not need to speak; words would only confuse us both.

My invisible friend would stroke my hair as father sent me to bed, and this friend was the only company had during the long nights in the dark. Every shadow came alive then, whispering and watching for weaknesses in the quilt that shielded my body from the darkness. It was much later that I grew to understand the whispering was not a warning but an invitation for hours of unsupervised fun. In those childhood days, the shadows and my friend and I, we all had words that were only for us and only we could understand them.

Mother and Father argued sometimes. I spent my time in my room, with the shadows and my friend. Sometimes, I caught my mother leaving outside with her nice dress on as if she were going to a party, which was odd since Mother was usually out all the time in her 'working' clothes. My father rarely came with her. I never understood why, but he never seemed happy that she was going out to enjoy herself. I thought he was just jealous at the time that he couldn't join Mother's all-girl club. It never occurred to that Father might've had a reason he never started his own club. I played tag with the shadows and my friend; the only words we spoke were the ones that we used just for us. It was like a secret club no one knew about and I found it exciting.

Sometimes, Mother and Father would argue loudly. When it was my fifth birthday, they sent me to a place of white walls and odd smells. A wrinkly man with large glasses just like on TV came to say hello. I didn't reply of course, the odd man was a stranger and I wasn't supposed to talk to strangers. Then the man tried to give me crayons and paper to draw with. Of course, I'm a good boy; I refused since the man was a stranger and I wasn't supposed to accept things from strangers. He talked a lot to me, then to Mother and Father. I thought I was being very good but Mother and Father were not happy when we went back home. I ran back to my room to talk to my friend and the shadows about what happened, using our secret only-us words. We spoke as loudly as we could to drown out the shouting outside. I thought Mother and Father were competing with us for loudness. I don't think we won; I soon got tired and went to sleep.

Mother got very upset with Father a short time after. She said some bad words and broke things and left. Father sat at the table for a very long time, his face like something was wrong. He must've forgotten to dry his face when he washed that morning; I was sure I saw some leftover water on his face. I wanted to tell him that Mother was a terrible playmate anyway; there was no reason for him to be upset. He would always tell me to learn which playmates were good and which playmates were bad. Of course, bad playmates would say bad words and break things and leave, so Mother was a bad playmate. I don't think Father wanted me to talk at that time, so I made sure to slip a note with one of our special words written on it for luck. It was an invitation to join our club, so he would not have to play by himself! I don't think he got it though, I found it later in the trash can. Maybe Father put it there on accident. Silly Father!

That was so long ago. I think I understand now what you were always talking about, Father. Like that note you left for me- before you tried to make a swing with rope around your neck, holding my invitation crumpled up in your hand. I don't think I will lie to myself anymore. All this time, I had hid behind the shadows, the friends, the lies, until it was too late to save you. Maybe it's not too late to finally stop lying, even though you're no longer alive to see… I just hope you can forgive me.

Oh, is this the final draft? Looking better than the first couple.

Yeah, this is the final draft, I a thinking of submitting it to that magazine I was talking about earlier but want some more opinions first.