the dream catcher and shuffled through the rest of the pictures. Most were of her, and there were some of my dad.
He looked like he hadn’t aged a day, despite the pictures being over sixteen years old. He looked into her eyes lovingly as she smiled up at him, and it was the first time I had seen him look truly happy.
I always considered my dad pretty easy going, and I’d never thought twice about him ever being unhappy. Until seeing him now.
I had no memory of my dad ever looking so content. I could see now what my dad’s life used to be like, before he was left to bring me up on his own.
I mean sure, he gave me everything I wanted. He more or less let me do whatever I wanted, within reason of course, and he never ever complained. But these pictures showed my dad actually living, and not just existing, and I felt guilty in some way. Like it was my fault he had been left with me.
A wet splodge dropped onto the photographs, and I realised I was crying.
I didn’t want to look through any more boxes.
I hugged my legs close to my chest and clung on to the pictures as I cried. My dad had lied to me. This was our stuff, and it definitely did not look like it had been near any water, let alone flooded.
I wiped my eyes and tried to stifle my tears as I looked around me at the bare room, trying to work out how I could have ended up here.
I noticed a wide opening in the floor opposite where I sat and I pulled myself up, grabbing the dream catcher and picture, and walked over to where a narrow set of wooden steps led down into darkness.
I carefully made my way down them, with my hands pressed to the cold walls at either side of me, and came to a dead end at the bottom, blocked by a wall. I banged against it ferociously, panicking at the realisation that I might be stuck here.
I moved my hands over the wall, looking for a handle of some sort, and it jolted under my weight. I pressed on it harder, and I heard it slide open. Dragging it towards me until it was fully open, hanging clothes filled my vision.
I narrowed my eyes and I could make out what looked like my dad’s stuff, some on hangers, and some scattered onto the floor. I ran my hands over them, feeling the cool fabric under my fingers, and I got a familiar waft of his scent as the clothes moved under my touch.
A door on the other side of the clothes stood ajar and I moved through them, stepping out into his bedroom. I didn’t understand how, or why I had just stepped out of the wardrobe, but it didn’t matter.
As my eyes fell across the empty bedroom, instead of the neat sage green cotton sheets covering the tidy king bed, and the bedside table with the small lamp and alarm clock that always sat upon it; the whole room had been ransacked.
The green-checkered curtains half hung from the windows, having been torn down. The bed linen was strewn across the floor. The pillows were ripped apart, leaving down feathers scattered all over the room, covering the horrific mess, and the mattress was ripped in two. Every single draw hung out of the dressing table, with its contents littered across the floor.
What on earth happened here?
I moved from my dad’s room to my room, where exactly the same mess awaited me. My stuff was everywhere. My vintage cushions that once sat snugly on my window seat, were torn to shreds. The expensive fabric littering the floor in tattered pieces. My dresser lay toppled over, the drawers hanging out.
My wardrobe doors were wide open, and inside, I could see my clothes ripped from their hangers. The three-way mirror that should have been on top of my dresser, was now just shards of glass shattered on the floor.
I dropped the items in my hand and fled from the room, running down the stairs. I couldn’t find a single room that wasn’t sabotaged, and my dad was nowhere to be seen. I prayed that he’d stayed at work, and hadn’t been caught up in this.
I ran back to my room, and picking up the first thing I could see in
He looked like he hadn’t aged a day, despite the pictures being over sixteen years old. He looked into her eyes lovingly as she smiled up at him, and it was the first time I had seen him look truly happy.
I always considered my dad pretty easy going, and I’d never thought twice about him ever being unhappy. Until seeing him now.
I had no memory of my dad ever looking so content. I could see now what my dad’s life used to be like, before he was left to bring me up on his own.
I mean sure, he gave me everything I wanted. He more or less let me do whatever I wanted, within reason of course, and he never ever complained. But these pictures showed my dad actually living, and not just existing, and I felt guilty in some way. Like it was my fault he had been left with me.
A wet splodge dropped onto the photographs, and I realised I was crying.
I didn’t want to look through any more boxes.
I hugged my legs close to my chest and clung on to the pictures as I cried. My dad had lied to me. This was our stuff, and it definitely did not look like it had been near any water, let alone flooded.
I wiped my eyes and tried to stifle my tears as I looked around me at the bare room, trying to work out how I could have ended up here.
I noticed a wide opening in the floor opposite where I sat and I pulled myself up, grabbing the dream catcher and picture, and walked over to where a narrow set of wooden steps led down into darkness.
I carefully made my way down them, with my hands pressed to the cold walls at either side of me, and came to a dead end at the bottom, blocked by a wall. I banged against it ferociously, panicking at the realisation that I might be stuck here.
I moved my hands over the wall, looking for a handle of some sort, and it jolted under my weight. I pressed on it harder, and I heard it slide open. Dragging it towards me until it was fully open, hanging clothes filled my vision.
I narrowed my eyes and I could make out what looked like my dad’s stuff, some on hangers, and some scattered onto the floor. I ran my hands over them, feeling the cool fabric under my fingers, and I got a familiar waft of his scent as the clothes moved under my touch.
A door on the other side of the clothes stood ajar and I moved through them, stepping out into his bedroom. I didn’t understand how, or why I had just stepped out of the wardrobe, but it didn’t matter.
As my eyes fell across the empty bedroom, instead of the neat sage green cotton sheets covering the tidy king bed, and the bedside table with the small lamp and alarm clock that always sat upon it; the whole room had been ransacked.
The green-checkered curtains half hung from the windows, having been torn down. The bed linen was strewn across the floor. The pillows were ripped apart, leaving down feathers scattered all over the room, covering the horrific mess, and the mattress was ripped in two. Every single draw hung out of the dressing table, with its contents littered across the floor.
What on earth happened here?
I moved from my dad’s room to my room, where exactly the same mess awaited me. My stuff was everywhere. My vintage cushions that once sat snugly on my window seat, were torn to shreds. The expensive fabric littering the floor in tattered pieces. My dresser lay toppled over, the drawers hanging out.
My wardrobe doors were wide open, and inside, I could see my clothes ripped from their hangers. The three-way mirror that should have been on top of my dresser, was now just shards of glass shattered on the floor.
I dropped the items in my hand and fled from the room, running down the stairs. I couldn’t find a single room that wasn’t sabotaged, and my dad was nowhere to be seen. I prayed that he’d stayed at work, and hadn’t been caught up in this.
I ran back to my room, and picking up the first thing I could see in
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