In Memory

Even my dreams are against me now. My unconscious mind throws me back into the best of days with my Father. Were he still alive I wouldn't feel so bad about what happened.

In my dream I was a kid again. In reality this happened when I was seven but I was older this time. I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night to a loud banging at the door.

I stepped out of bed, the hardwood of my childhood room frosted from the winter chill. From there I make my way down the hall, my dreams always made this part the worst, stretching it on forever, frostbite spreading on my toes as as slowly walked across the icy floor.

When I finally reach the front room I already know something is wrong. When I was a kid I wasn't tall enough to see out through the peep hole in the door, but in my dreams I look out to see my father, banking on the door, big and angry.

I can't stop myself from opening the door. With the door open his face is twisted, neck bent at an odd angle, skin stretched thin across his skull, his arms longer than they should have been, ripped from the joints and moving as if serpents as he reached for me. I turn to run but suddenly the room is on fire and the door is blocked by debris.

I jerk awake to the blood welling up again. Stress made it worse. I rushed to the bathroom again, coughing more of the vile liquid from my lungs.

The clock read 8:15 so I didn't get much sleep. The sun had just set and my phone was buzzing from somewhere in the bed. I knew in some far away part of my mind that I needed to answer it.

I changed my clothes instead, gym shorts and a tshirt, while not my look, were definitely a look. Once finished I tied my hair back and checked my missed calls. 42 from three different numbers.

If I didn't know any better I'd think people liked me. One five voicemails so I wasn't going to lose all day listening to them. I dialed my voicemail and started out the door, pulling my jacket from the back of a chair as I passed.