A/N: Sorry it's slightly boring and rushed lol, for those that are not used to my writing ways lol, best tip would be to kind of remember little things from the start to end, because it always comes back up.
I`m still a little rusty, so bare with me lol
I would say that I am the most religious, non-religious person I know of; Throughout my years I have been given obstacles, protectors, enemies, signs, gifts, everything. Considering the way I was to the way I am, I have grown so much.
I am baptised under the Christian Belief but I prefer not to be restricted by religions many man-made rules, so I like to think that I belong to no religion, and I believe I don’t need a building to believe in God or Jesus. I don’t live life religiously, nor do I attend Church every Sunday. But at the end of the day, I feel I am one of the most appreciative and faithfully loyal children of Jesus, and God.
I believe in the saying, “To give a life, you must take a life” and on this day, the day I was born, the godfather of the crime family, The Gambino family was killed, along with his consigliere and a few others in cold blood, by an underboss John Gotti in the efforts to take over the family as the Don. Because a lot of powerfully intimidating people had to pass for me to be born, I must have some sort if importance in this world. I was born December 16th, 1985 in a small insignificant outer suburb of the capital city; one of those hidden treasures no one knows is there unless they actually drive into the town instead of driving passed, only to stop in at the local gas station on the main road.
I wasn’t born into a fairytale billion dollar family, my father was a truck driver for the local gold mine, whereas my mom was a stay at home mother. We weren’t rich, but were well off because of my father’s job. Our house wasn’t anything to brag about, it was your average suburban 3 bedroom home, with a backyard big enough for us to play in and a neighbourhood safe enough for us to walk with our parents to the local freshwater river that was located down the road.
I have two older brothers, Cruden and Lennox and growing up we didn’t have a perfect sibling-ship as we use to fight, a lot! which continued far into our teenage years.
Before our teenage years, even our children years, our lives took a turn for the worst as the news of my daddy passing away. My mother’s heart was broken, and we were young enough to be too confused about why our dad wasn’t waking up from his sleep. I was 3-years old.
Who really remembers when they were 3-yrs young? I do, partially, and not for the sweet loveable memories you would think, not even for some sorry abusive memory. This was the year I lost the one person I would miss, crave, and mourn for throughout my entire life, the one I would take years to accept had gone, and would Also take this long for me to forgive god for ripping him from me and taking away my father away.
The only thing I really remember without any alteration was the aftermath from my dad collapsing in the small hallway when he had returned from work. How do I remember this? I don’t know, I don’t remember if I was there when he actually fell from the heart attack. I just remember me and my two older brothers, who were 4 and 6 at the time, were led into our parents room by our mother. The room was surrounded by my dad’s closest work friends, his sports club friends, and our family as he lay in my parents’ bed asleep, or so I thought. I remember walking in scared, looking around the room at the familiar presences in the room, yet their faces unrecognizable from the sorrow. I watched as my brothers climbed onto the bed to sit next to our dad, I tilted my head wondering why he didn’t wake up as someone lifted me up and sat me next to my dad as I crawled into the blankets and snuggled into him. I guess he was just extra tired from work and needed to sleep.
My memories draw a blank from that point but soon flash in of my family sitting in the back of a van. I sat across from my mother who was hugging my two brothers as I sat somewhat elevated, I remember sitting on a brown box playing with a toy. Later to learn we were heading to my fathers last resting place as I sat on top of his coffin, oblivious to my surroundings.
In our culture we keep those that have passed away for three days, the first day is for the immediate family, the second day is for the friends and family, and the third day is for those that need to travel from afar, including overseas. His days were spent on the road, we lived at the bottom of the North Island and he was to be buried at the tip of the North Island, which is around a 12hour drive.
Throughout those three days the only thing I remember is the last day, leaning into my father’s coffin as he lay in state. I remember looking at his face and thinking to myself, “Why isn’t my dad waking up yet?” I don’t remember if I knew he was dead or even understood what dead meant, But I hated that he wouldn’t open his eyes. I hated that he wouldn’t move, and I hated that he wasn’t giving my hugs and kisses.
I guess this is where my life just got harder, and my faith in God or anything good slowly began to deteriorate.