eulogy 3
David called himself a godly man, but his church was a barstool. his hymns were sung in the rustle of dollar bills, and salvation came in the form of a bottle, and the touch of someone who wasn't his wife.
he preached about heaven but built his own hell — one paycheck at a time. he loved the hum of machines more than the sound of his son’s voice on the other end of the phone.
he loved to be seen as good, but goodness never really knew him. he was the kind of man who could talk about salvation, while selling pieces of his soul to the highest bidder.
Atticus, his son, adored him. he worshipped him once, like a boy kneeling before his father's shadow. wanted his nod, his "i'm proud of you, son." but the nods were rare, and the shadow swallowed everything. he kept waiting for David to notice the man Atticus became, while David was too busy pretending to be one.
when the world started closing in on Atticus, his father was still clocked in. busy building his kingdom of overtime and empty promises. he didn't see the cracks forming, didn't hear the chamber click, until it was too late.
but David didn't raise a son, he raised a mirror, and when Atticus shattered, the reflection cut deeper than he'd ever admit. he didn't see the dim in his son's eyes — he was busy counting dollars, calling it devotion, calling it purpose.
David didn't pull the trigger. he just kept handing Atticus the bullets — every missed call, every sermon about strength, every "man up" disguised as wisdom. he loaded that chamber with pride and neglect and called it love.
he loved God, money and women - in that order. but i wonder if he ever learned how to love anything that couldn't be
bought,
praised,
or poured into a glass.
now his son is gone, and all his sermons echo back empty. the kind of faith he sold, never saved anyone, not even himself.
713
Chloe