The candle wax melted down to the point where the wick wouldn't burn anymore, its cinnamon aroma filled the studio apartment, as promised.  The package said it would last for four hours straight.  It was running on three hours and thirty-seven minutes when it began to fight for its life, slowly dying out, and the cassette tape remained in the same spot, in the same position Greg left it when he placed it down and lit the match to kill the candle.  Within that time, he retrieved a letter and bought a cassette player, tasks which he completed within twenty minutes of lighting the match, so for the other three hours and seventeen minutes, he sat and stared at the tape, slowly mustering up the courage to finally play it.

"Are you just going to stare at it?" he asked himself.  He'd been repressing the repetitive thoughts dancing in his head, pushing them into the back of his subconscious, but as the time passed, and the candle slowly whittled away, those two words edged their way into a boding order.

Play it.

"You need to know," he murmured.  "It's the only way you'll get closure from the bastard."  He nodded in agreement with himself, picked up the tape and the player, paused, then put them both back on the table.  "Coward."

He reached into the garbage bin next to him and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper for the third time that day.  He neatly flattened it out and reread the words:

Dear Greggie,
Hi, baby!  I'll just get right down to it.  You asked me to sit in for you during your father's will reading.  I have some bad news.  He didn't leave anything for you.  

"What a surprise," he scoffed.

Please don't take it too personally, sweetheart.

"Oh I won't.  But for argument's sake, just how else should I take it?"

I'm sure he just thought he'd outlive you, and you know how untimely his death was.  

"Yea, cancer.  Real untimely."

He didn't have any time to fix or change it.  

"He wouldn't if he did.”

He would've if he could've.  He loved you.  We love you.  I hope you know that.

Love,
Mom

P.S.
I know it might not mean much now, but here's something that your father made for you some years ago and never really got around to giving it to you, since you two stopped talking and all.  I never listened to it, so I do not know what it says, but hopefully, it will give you some insight on him a little better.

Greg immediately crumpled the letter back up and slam-dunked it in the trash bin.  "What was the point of that, huh?” he asked himself.  "You're just gonna pull it out of the trash can and read it again, because you're stalling.”  He slowly began to reach for the tape player.  "You're a stronger man than you were when you talked to that son of a bitch.  Nothing he can tell you can hurt you.  Not anymore.”  He took the tape and slid it into the player, teasing his fingers around the play button.  As he did this, his eyes wandered around the desk and landed on the folded letter that simply had "Greg” written on the front.  He set the player to the side and snatched up the paper.  "Then why do I still keep this?”  Silent, angry drips of salt water escaped his tear ducts as he ripped the letter open.  It read:

Greg,

Knowing that you, my son, are what you are disgusts me.  It literally gets me sick to my stomach.  They say that love is unconditional, so I don't understand why you're doing this to your mother and me.  What did we do to make you lash out like this?  I used to be so proud of you, now I'm not sure I can even look you in the face anymore.  I'm writing you this letter because I'm positive if I tell you this in person, I'd end up choking the life out of you.  There's only so much you can do before we stop forgiving.  It was hard enough when we found out you were a junkie, hooked on that poison, stealing from your own family like we were strangers.  Then you got that gay-killer disease and made us believe it was from your needles and the like.  Now you tell us that you're…well, I'm done.  We're done.  You disappoint me, and I say that only because I'm too frustrated to take the time to look up a more appropriate word for it.  That might be a word that your mother would use, but I know there's something more fitting in the English language.   Saying you’re a disgrace is an understatement.  You’re a waste of my good sperm.  I don’t want to see or hear from you ever again.  Don’t consider me your father.  Don’t consider us family.  You’re dead to me.  Soon, you’ll be dead to everyone, as that is God’s way of taking care of the problem.  What you are isn’t natural, and I wish we could have caught it earlier so we could have prevented this disease from infecting you, but the Lord has already bestowed judgment on your soul with your ailment.  I pray that he has more mercy than I have for you.  I can’t forgive you for what you’ve done to this family.

John

By the time he’d finished reading, the tears had stopped flowing, and Greg stared blankly at the letter.  He'd read that letter so many times, he could probably recite it.  He delicately folded the letter back up, set it back down on the table, and picked up the tape recorder.  "What, John?  You weren’t satisfied with the letter?  Did you have to tell me how much of a disappointing drugged-out faggot your son turned out to be out loud too?”  He pulled the tape out and examined it.  It was blank.  For all Greg knew, it was empty.  "When’d you even do this, anyways?”

Maybe it’s not even him, he thought to himself.  Maybe it’s one of those crazy Christian pastor tapes that he always used to order.

He gave an empty chuckle.  "Maybe.  Maybe he might’ve found a tape to finally heal the gay in me!”

That'll be the day.

He reached into the garbage bin, pulled out his mother’s letter for the fourth time, and dipped it on the candle, into the flame.  The flame flung to the side, struggling to keep hold of the last bit of wick before hugging onto the crumpled page, eating away at it, leaving the residue in a black, charred mess.  Greg quickly let go and stared into the small burst, mesmerized.  "I could do that to it all,” he whispered, "then I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore.  He’s gone from this world, and getting rid of this would make him gone from my life!”

The paper broke off into little bits and hopped in the air, gliding onto his desk.  Particles fell onto the player and Greg quickly brushed them off.  

Play it.

He picked it up and finally pushed the play button.

"Hey Greg,” the recording started, "it’s your pop.”  The voice was crackled and tired, yet stern.  "I know the years haven’t been too kind to our relationship, but I wanted to get a few things clear to you.  Well—uh—well, son, you know I’m no good talking to you in person, cuz of the arguments and such, so I thought it’d be best to say what I gotta say here on this here tape.  No interruptions.  No rebuttals.  No goddamn mediating from your mother.  Just words out of my mouth.  For you to hear.  From me.  True words.”  The speakers belted out a long sigh.

That’s just like you, Greg thought.  You were more of a man than me but not man enough to say this to my face.

"I know what we’ve been through is a lot,” it continued, "but it’s nothing like what you’re going to go through now.  I told you that if you ever dropped out of high school, I’d disown you, but you dropped out anyway, and we got through that.  The drugs—the stealing—I didn’t know if we were going to come out of that, but we did.  The choices you make in life dictate the consequences that fall upon you, and dropping out got you into drugs, or drugs got you to drop out, I don’t know.  Drugs got you to the needle.  The needle got you stealing for more drugs, and then you got the AIDS.

"You made some piss poor decisions in your life, but you survived from them.  And you know what?  You’re gonna survive the AIDS, too."  The playback emoted a couple of sniffles.  "You know why I know that?  Because you done changed.  You got off that stuff.  You started getting healthy.  You take your meds every day.  You’ve got that sponsor that cares about you so much.”

“That was my lover,” Greg chuckled.

"You’re turning your life around, and I couldn’t be more proud than that."  The dialogue stopped for a few moments, and the sniffles became gasps and painful moans.  "No matter what happens," it continued, slowly, almost in an attempt to keep composure but failing and breaking down completely into sobbing, "you’re still my son.  I want you to know that no matter what I’ve said, I’m proud to be your father.  I love you son.”  The playback stopped.

Greg stared down at the tape, indifferent.  "I’m not crying,” he murmured, voice breaking down.  He rewound the tape and replayed it.

As the tape replayed its apology, Greg thought about the letter he read dozens of times, the words that cemented in his brain as his father’s overall opinion.  The disappointment.  The alienation.  The insults.  The retraction of his birth-given right to have a father.  Soon, you’ll be dead to everyone, as that is God’s way of taking care of the problem.

"I want you to know that no matter what I’ve said,” the playback continued, "I’m proud to be your fa—”

Greg abruptly stopped the tape.  Don’t consider me your father.  "Hmph,” he grunted, then dropped the tape player on the candle.  "I still can’t forgive you for what you’ve done to me.”  The recorder mashed the remnants of the letter down into ashes, causing it to mix in with the wax as it splashed on the table.  The weight of the player was too much for the flame to handle, fluttering around to catch grip.  Ultimately, it gave up, exhaling one final time before extinguishing completely.