we were at a party, or some kind of evening gathering. my dad took us, me and a friend. we told him we were ready to leave, and we were getting our stuff. he went to another closet to get his things. i saw two guys approach him. one of them punched him in the stomach and the other hit him on the head. he was unconscious and they carried him out. i looked out the window and saw them riding away with him slumped over the back of their motorcycle.
i thought he would come home late that night, or maybe next morning, but he didn’t. a week went by. i started to worry and wanted to call the police. but i didn’t. i just cried and hoped he’d walk through the door.
i cried in patrick’s arms. it’s been almost a week and a half! where could he be? he usually doesn’t stay away this long. maybe he’s hurt? and as i said this, seeing the sad look on patrick’s face, i realised that he’s not hurt. he’s dead. he’s been dead 10 years.
i spent the next few days no longer worried about my dad, but worried about myself. had i hallucinated? did i actually see him at the party or was it a dream? can i no longer trust my mind?
but then one afternoon, i heard the door, someone fumbling with the keys, and i knew it was him. the first thing i saw was his reflection in the hallway mirror. i ran to him, crying. and he brushed my hair and said i’m here, i’m okay!