Before I Closed My Eyes

The day I walked out of prison, my own daughter took me to court to legally sever all ties with me. After I signed the papers in silence, she threw a check for eighty thousand dollars right in my face. "Take this money and never show your face in front of me again!" I quietly picked up the check and watched her luxury sports car speed off into the distance. On the bus back, the overhead screen was broadcasting the morning news, featuring her as the brilliant co-founder of a booming tech startup. Hunched in my seat, I let out a bitter, silent chuckle. She had made it after all. Frank, my oldest friend, called me on the phone, furious, screaming that I was an absolute fool. He demanded to know why I refused to tell her the truth. He knew that my criminal record had been an act of taking the fall for her five years ago. He knew that I was now dying of late-stage lung cancer, with only a few days left to live. But I couldn't say a single word. She was now a high-profile entrepreneur. She couldn't afford the stain of having an ex-convict for a father. All my life, I only knew how to teach through harsh discipline. I never learned how to love with tenderness. As long as she lived a good, proud life, throwing away whatever was left of mine was worth it. When I finally arrived home and pushed open the rusted iron gate, the weeds in the yard were already knee-high. The ivy in the corner of the wall had grown wild, swallowing up half the window frame. I set down my beat-up duffel bag. In the silence, I could almost hear the ringing of high school bells echoing from years ago. "Good morning, Dean Vance!" "Look out, the Tyrant is coming! Hide your phones!" Those young voices, dripping with equal parts fear and awe, cut through the river of time straight into my ears. Back then, I was the Dean of Discipline at our small-town high school. I was the walking nightmare of every kid who walked those halls. I believed in iron-clad rules and military-style discipline. The town was poor and isolated. The only way out for those kids was to earn top test scores and claw their way into elite universities. I wanted to drag every single one of them out of that godforsaken dust bowl. To do that, I cut the dorm internet cables, confiscated boxes of phones and comic books, and walked the school perimeter with a flashlight all night long. I didn't care if they despised me. I only cared that they made something of themselves. That included my own daughter, Chloe. Back then, Chloe loved to draw. She would sit by the window for hours, staring out at the clouds. She was undeniably talented. Her sketches were bursting with colors and worlds far beyond my imagination. But could painting put food on the table? In a town like ours, chasing art was a luxury that led straight to starvation. In front of her entire class, I tore her sketchbook into shreds. As the scraps of paper drifted to the floor like dead leaves, I watched the light in her eyes flicker and die. "You're not my dad! You're a monster, Arthur Vance!" she screamed at me through her tears. I stared back at her without a flicker of emotion. "Stop crying! Tears are the most useless thing in this world! Get back in your seat and finish your vocabulary drills!" That night, she locked herself in her bedroom and went on a hunger strike. I sat in the living room the whole night, smoking through an entire pack of cigarettes. The next morning, holding a bowl of pasta, I kicked her bedroom door wide open. "Not eating? Fine. Forget school then. Come with me to the construction yard!" "Let's see the kind of life you'll live without an education!" I dragged her down to the nearby brick factory yard by sheer force. It was midsummer, a sweltering ninety-eight degrees out. I made her watch kids barely older than her, their faces caked in dirt, hauling hundreds of pounds of bricks under the blistering sun. Sweat washed through the grime, burning their eyes so badly they could hardly keep them open. "Look at them! That is where people who don't study end up!" "You want to paint? Can your fancy brushes capture the smell of that sweat?" "Listen to me, Chloe. In this world, only your grades won't betray you!" Terrified, Chloe clutched my shirt hem, sobbing until she couldn't breathe. "Dad, I was wrong! I'll study! I swear I'll study!" From that day on, she never picked up a paintbrush again. She became my most flawless creation. Ranked first in the entire district, she dominated the top of the honor roll exam after exam. She chopped off her long hair, keeping a severe buzz cut just like mine, and wore oversized, shapeless clothes like a boy. No boys ever passed her love notes again. No one gossiped about her being pretty anymore. She became an emotionless machine that existed solely to solve practice tests. I knew she hated me. She hated me for stealing her youth. She hated me for killing her dream. Yet, I had no regrets. If I hadn't done that, how could she have gotten into an Ivy League university on a full ride? How could she have climbed to the top of the world like she had now?Throughout her three years of high school, she lived under my suffocating iron grip. I was her homeroom teacher, her dean, and her father. This suffocating dual identity robbed her of any room to breathe. Other kids could at least whisper curses behind my back to blow off steam. She didn't even dare to do that. Because my bedroom was right next to hers. During her junior year, a group of traveling indie musicians came through our small town. They had dyed hair, played scuffed acoustic guitars, and sang loudly about freedom and endless roads. Chloe was enchanted. Every day after school, she took the long way home just to hear them perform. I noticed her class rank slip by five spots. So, I followed her. On that run-down public square, I saw her cradling a battered guitar, smiling so brightly, so radiantly. It was a smile I had never once seen on her face at home. The lead singer, a young guy with long hair, was holding her fingers, showing her how to press the chords. Blinding rage consumed my senses in an instant. I charged forward, snatched the guitar right out of her hands, and smashed it onto the concrete with all my might. With a deafening crack, the strings snapped, and splintered wood flew everywhere. The music died instantly. Everyone froze, staring at me in sheer terror. Chloe turned pale as a sheet, trembling violently. "Dad..." "Don't you dare call me Dad! I don't have a daughter who humiliates me like this!" I shoved my finger an inch from the young man's face, spitting with fury: "Stay away from my daughter! You deadbeat bums, don't you dare drag my student into the gutter!" "And you, Chloe! Think you're tough now?" "Throwing away your future to pretend you're a rebel? Screwing around with rock music?" "Is this how you repay me? Is this what your late mother died for?" I grabbed her collar in broad daylight and hauled her through the streets like a stray dog. Bystanders stared and pointed at us the entire walk home. She lost one of her sneakers along the way, her bare heel scraping blood onto the pavement, her screams tearing the air apart. "I hate you, Arthur Vance! I will hate you for the rest of my life!" The moment we got inside, I took out the heavy wooden discipline paddle I had used for decades. "Hold out your hands!" She bit her lip stubbornly, refusing to raise her arms. "Refusing? Fine!" I didn't strike her. I struck myself. With full force, I slammed the heavy paddle against my own thigh. "If you won't turn out right, it means I failed as an educator!" Smack! Smack! Smack! Blow after blow, delivering each strike with everything I had. Blood quickly seeped through my trousers, the fabric sticking to the torn flesh. Chloe finally broke. She dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around my legs, sobbing uncontrollably. "Dad! Stop, please stop! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" "I won't ever go back! I'll study, I swear to God!" That night, father and daughter wept together on the cold floor. And that was the very last time she ever called me "Dad." After that, the light in her eyes vanished completely. She became dead silent, obsessively studious, bordering on self-harm. She slept only four hours a night, drilling vocabulary flashcards even while chewing her food. In the end, she earned her acceptance letter to an Ivy League university, just as planned. The day the thick envelope arrived, the whole school erupted in celebration. Holding that sheet of paper, my hands shook. I reached out to pat her head, to tell her, "You did great, kid." She stepped back, glaring at me with eyes as cold as ice. "Dean Vance, my assignment is complete. Am I allowed to leave now?" "I want to major in Art History and Archaeology." My brows furrowed, and I objected without thinking: "Archaeology? There are zero jobs in that field! How will you ever buy a home or survive?" "Listen to me. Major in Computer Science or Finance. That's where the future is. That's where the real money is." She glared at me, her eyes bloodshot. "Arthur Vance, I got into an Ivy League school! Do I not even have the right to choose my own major?" "No, you don't!" I snapped mercilessly. "I'm your father. I've walked ten times more roads than you have! I am doing this for your own good!" "Your so-called dreams are worth nothing when you can't even afford to eat!" I forced her to change her academic enrollment form, overriding her choice with Computer Science. She locked herself in her room and didn't speak a single word for three days. On the morning she left for college, she refused to let me drive her to the bus station. She left only a short note on the kitchen counter: "You won, Arthur Vance. But I swear, as long as I have breath in my lungs, I will run so far away from you that you will never find me again." She kept her promise. During all four years of college, she never returned home once. She paid for every single expense by working part-time jobs, refusing to take a single dime from me. Whenever I dialed her number, the call went straight to voicemail or was blocked. I knew she was avoiding me on purpose. Frank tried to console me: "The girl has grown her wings, Arthur. Let her fly." I wanted to let her fly. But the world out there was cutthroat, and I was terrified she would fall. I could only ship her local food and care packages through Frank, pretending they were school care packages from our hometown. I saved every penny of my monthly paycheck, thinking I would hand it to her as a massive down-payment gift when she got married and bought her first home. I never imagined that before I could deliver that surprise, a nightmare would strike first.In her senior year, she came back out of nowhere. She didn't come to visit. She came to announce her wedding. The groom-to-be was an "independent artist"—the younger brother of the wandering singer I had chased away years before. Looking at the bleach-blonde punk with ear piercings standing beside her, my blood pressure spiked so high I almost collapsed. "Out of the question! Over my dead body!" "Chloe, you're an Ivy League graduate! You have the world at your feet! How could you throw your life away on a bum like this?" "Does he have a job? Does he have health insurance? Does he own a house? What kind of future can he give you?" Chloe watched me coldly, looping her arm tightly through the man's. "He loves me. That's enough." "Besides, I'm already pregnant." Those words struck me like a bolt of lightning, freezing me to the core. Unmarried and pregnant. In our conservative town, the gossip alone would tear a girl to pieces. Trembling with rage, I pointed straight at the front door. "Get out! Both of you, get the hell out!" "Get an abortion! Immediately!" "You want to marry him? Over my dead body!" This time, Chloe didn't scream or cry. She merely looked at me with an eerie calmness, her eyes flickering with the sweet taste of vengeance. "Fine. Then I'll just wait for the day you die." She turned around and left with that man. I thought she was just speaking out of anger, that she would come back to her senses in a few days. I was dead wrong. That man was no artist. He was a stone-cold con artist. He didn't just prey on Chloe's emotions; he manipulated her into taking out massive predatory loans from private loan sharks, claiming he was opening an elite art gallery. By the time the debt collectors called me, the man had already cleaned out the accounts and fled the state. They had Chloe trapped in their compound. Over the receiver, her voice was shattered by frantic sobs: "Dad, help me... please... they're going to kill me..." For the first time in my entire life, I felt true, suffocating terror. I grabbed every cent of my life savings, along with the bank certificate meant for her future home, and drove like a maniac to that abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. Waiting inside was Marcus, a notorious local enforcer, holding a steel pipe with a sneer across his scarred face. "Hey, old man. Did you bring the cash?" I slammed the bag of money onto the dirty floor. "Let her go." They counted the cash, but showed no intention of releasing her. "This barely covers the interest, pop. What your daughter actually owes us... is this much." Marcus held up five fingers. Fifty thousand dollars. Back in those days, in a small town like ours, that was an impossible fortune. I glanced over at the corner, where Chloe was curled up, clothes torn, her face covered in dark purple bruises. A sharp, searing pain ripped through my chest. This was the girl I had raised in the palm of my hand, the girl I had pushed with everything I had. I had barely brought myself to lay a finger on her, yet these animals dared to touch her? "I don't have that kind of money," I rasped, taking off my jacket to reveal the heavy wooden baton tucked into my waistband—contraband I had confiscated from a student years ago and kept. "But I have my life." "Frank, call the police!" I roared at Frank, who was hiding outside the warehouse door. Then, like a mad dog with nothing left to lose, I charged straight into the pack. That fight was bloody and chaotic. I was an old man; there was no way I could overpower a crew of young, brutal thugs. Steel pipes crashed into my spine and skull, warm blood blinding my vision. Yet, I lunged forward and sank my teeth straight into Marcus's ear, refusing to let go no matter how violently they battered my ribs. "Touch my daughter... and I'll tear your throat out!"Eventually, sirens wailed, and the police raided the building. Marcus had lost half his ear and was in a coma from severe trauma. And I, charged with excessive force and aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, received a prison sentence. In court, I didn't utter a single word of defense. I only begged the public defender to pin every shred of liability on me, ensuring Chloe remained completely untouched by the law. I instructed Frank to pass a message to her: "Tell her I beat a student into a disability during an altercation at school, and that's why I'm in prison." "Tell her that boy ran away because I threatened to kill him." I figured it was far better for her to believe she had lost a lover to an abusive father than to live with the crushing reality that she had been scammed, abused, and left in crippling debt. Hate brings clarity. Hate fuels ambition. Letting her hate a monster of a father was better than letting her drown in self-loathing. Sure enough, she bought the lie. When she came to visit me in prison, she glared at me through the thick visitation glass, her expression utterly disgusted. "You really are a violent psycho, Arthur Vance." "You ruined my love life, you ruined my future, and now you managed to throw yourself behind bars." "You make me sick." I forced a tight smile, the movement pulling at the stitches along my cheek, sending sharp jolts of pain through my face. "Yeah. I'm a monster, Chloe." "No one's around to control you anymore. You go on and live your life." "Fly far away. Fly as high as you can, and never look back." The flood of memories receded, leaving me coughing violently in my dusty living room. I hacked until my chest felt like it was tearing open. When I opened my trembling palm, there was a bright splash of dark blood. On the other end of the line, Frank's voice turned frantic: "Arthur! Arthur, what's happening? Talk to me!" My trembling hand reached into my coat pocket, pulled out a plastic bottle of heavy-duty painkillers, and chewed three pills dry. The bitter chalkiness spread across my tongue, pushing back the metallic taste of blood in my throat. "I'm fine. Just swallowed some dust." "Frank... I'm putting the house up for sale." "Selling it?" Frank's voice shot up an octave. "That's the only roof over your head! Where the hell are you going to live?" "With this body of mine, a ditch or a mansion makes no difference." I looked around the barren, hollow rooms. On the flaking wall, Chloe's childhood honor roll certificates were still pinned in neat, precise rows, though faded with time. "Chloe threw money at me today, but I didn't keep it." "She looks successful, but building a company in the city is high-stakes. I want to sell this place and put the cash into an account for her." "If her business ever tanks, or if life knocks her down, she'll at least have a safety net." "Besides... with this cancer, treatments won't change the outcome anyway. No point wasting the money." Frank fell dead silent on the other end of the line for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice broke into ragged curses: "Arthur Vance, you are a pathetic, stubborn bastard!" "You've bled dry for that ungrateful girl, you threw your entire life away, and does she know a damn thing?" "Mark my words: even when you drop dead, she won't shed a single tear for you!" I leaned my head back against the chipped paint, letting out a faint smile. "Good. No tears is good." "I don't ever want to see her cry." "I want her to stay just like she is now: proud, cold, and bulletproof." "Even if it's over my dead body." After hanging up, I began sorting through my few belongings. Truth be told, there wasn't much to pack: a few worn-out shirts, some old lesson plans, and a single family photograph. Chloe was ten when we took that picture. Back then, she had long, flowing hair and wore a little floral dress, smiling like sunshine. I stood behind her with my usual stern, unyielding expression, but my hand was resting gently on her small shoulder. That was the only photograph we ever took together. Suddenly, violent banging pounded against the front door. Bang! Bang! Bang! The force rattled the frame, as if someone wanted to tear it off its hinges. I frowned. Nobody ever visited this run-down neighborhood anymore. Who could be knocking like that? A debt collector? No, the debts had been cleared years ago. Dragging my leaden legs, I walked over and pulled the door open. Standing on the porch was Chloe, who had returned. Her clothes were the same, but her hair was windblown, and her eyes were rimmed with red, as though she had just been crying. Her fiancé was nowhere to be seen. Gripping a manila envelope, she slammed it violently against my chest. "Cut the pathetic act, Arthur Vance!" "What was that call I just received? Whose debt guarantor are you?!"