Part I
1
Cold beads of sweat drip down from my forehead. I sit up in the middle of my bed, trying to catch my breath. I snap my head to my right, looking at the clock on my nightstand. Two forty-five in the morning.
I shake my head and slowly drop it back down onto the pillow. My hand reaches up to the necklace hanging around my neck. It’s the only piece of jewelry that I never take off.
Every night, it’s the exact same thing.
Every night for the past eight years, the nightmares take over my dreams and cause me to wake, believing the things I’m seeing are happening all over again.
But I know they can’t be.
I know they are not happening again, because I’ve been without him for so long.
The events from that dreary cold November evening, when I witnessed my father being shot right in between his eyes, replay over and over in my mind.
Sure, there are things from my childhood I don’t even remember, like my mother, who died when I was eight. Granted, I remember her face from pictures and homemade videos, but things that I longed for growing up, such as her voice, her scent, I can’t remember, no matter how hard I think back.
But my father who was murdered execution style? My father who was killed in cold blood right at the stroke of midnight? That I remember as if it happened yesterday. Something like that, you don’t ever forget.
I still remember waking up wanting a drink of water. I remember how parched I had been. I was getting over a stupid cold, which caused me to breathe in through my mouth. I remember walking down the hall in the middle of the night in my baby-pink robe and matching slippers. Those slippers were my favorite, with the two fuzzy pom-poms on the tops. And then came the crashing of glass. Then came the horrible scraping sound coming from my father’s study.
What was going on?
I sped up, and once I reached the cracked door, I crept in and peeked inside.
And that’s the moment my whole world changed. That’s the moment my life was ripped away from me.
My father sat in his chair as usual, but unlike all the other times before, he was being held at gunpoint with a piece of silver duct tape over his lips and rope around his body.
Then a man came into view, standing in front of my dad. He was dressed in all black, and his eyes were barely visible. Still, I’ll never forget that shade of green, like the green of a meadow in the middle of springtime.
But his eyes didn’t hold the promise of all the beauty that takes place in spring, as the new flowers bloom and the lovebirds sing in song.
No. His eyes told another tale—one of darkness, and one that would forever cause me to wake up in the middle of the night in puddles of sweat.
The man reached out a hand and placed it on my father’s shoulder, keeping him right where he wanted him to be. And then, with his other hand, he pulled out a black, shiny gun.
“Daddy … no!” I whisper-shouted, knowing I needed to keep quiet. If this man, this monster standing over my father were to hear me, I’d be in trouble.
What the hell did he want? Why was he doing this to my father?
Those were the questions that haunted me for years, and still to this day, I don’t have the answer to.
And then, as Daddy caught a glimpse of me in the doorway, the man pulled the trigger, splattering my father’s blood all over the place.
I gasped. I gasped and held back my tears, as I knew I had to run. And I had to hide.
This was a bad man, but he wasn’t alone. Finally coming into sight, four or five of them stood to his right.
He mumbled something in a language I didn’t understand. Until he said the one thing I did. “Don’t stop searching until you find her. Find the girl.”
Me.
Whatever the reason was that they had killed my father, now they were after me. They were surely going to kill me, too.
So I ran, all the way upstairs. Thankfully, I knew the perfect spot. I ran to my parents’ bedroom, which Daddy still kept as though my mother were still alive. In the closet, toward the back, a small door leading into a crawlspace in the wall allowed me to hide out for the night.
And that’s where I stayed. That’s where I waited until I heard the police walking through my house.
When it was safe to come out, I did, and was questioned by a number of police officers. They had asked me about the murder, and, though I didn’t want to talk, still in shock after witnessing the events of the previous night, I told them what I knew.
Those terrible memories haunt me night after night.
Now, I’m staying with my aunt Jenny in the countryside. It’s where I’ve been for the last eight years. I’m so thankful for her love and nourishment, but at the same time, I’m ready to start my life. Come the fall, I’ll be moving to the city to start my life and attend university. Soon, I’ll have my own life back. If only I could have my father back in my life.
I clutch my teddy bear tight to my chest; it’s the dark brown one Daddy gave me as a present for my tenth birthday, the last we’d ever spend together.
I wipe at a tear that escapes the corner of my eye, and somehow, someway, doze back off to sleep.
2
The blare of the train horn makes my eyes fly open. I assess my surroundings and realize I’m still on the train. The gloomy sky outside indicates it’s going to rain soon. It’s okay, though, because I love the rain.
I take a quick glance at my watch. Only five more minutes till we arrive at Brockville. A new beginning awaits me there. It’s time for me to let go of the past and focus on the future. I carry my father in my heart everywhere I go. I keep him safe and close, and sometimes, when I’m feeling downhearted, I can still feel the warmth of his hugs shielding me. I know he’s always watching over me. He’s my guardian angel.
I sigh softly as I begin to gather my belongings. My heart races in my chest as I make my way out of the train. I’m about to step into the unknown, and the thought of starting fresh in a city I barely know both excites and terrifies me at the same time. I’ve only been to Brockville a couple of times in the past. Only when my aunt decided to buy stuff for the house that our small village didn’t sell. She never wanted to take me with her, now that I remember. Hence why I didn’t tell her that I applied to the University of Brockville. I waited until I got my acceptance letter and spit the news out to her and my uncles while we were having dinner.
I remember my uncle slamming his balled fist on the wooden table and causing all of our plates to vibrate on the surface. Anger morphed his wrinkly face as he pointed his fork at me and ordered me to forget about university because there was no way I was going to Brockville to study. I don’t know if it’s the curiosity about the reason behind my family’s hatred toward this city that made me apply or if it’s because it’s where my parents lived and raised me. A part of me belongs here. My father was once named the king of this city. People loved him. He was a powerful man who cared about people and wanted to make a change. A successful politician with goals and ambitions. But it always happens to good people, doesn’t it? Death knocks on innocent people’s doors rather than the real criminals whose souls belong behind bars.
Pulling my heavy suitcase toward me, I wave at the first taxi my eyes land on. Lucky for me, the car moves toward me and the driver climbs out to help me place my suitcase in the trunk of his Honda. I give him the address of where I’m heading, and he smiles warmly at me. Smiling from time to time, I pretend to listen as he tells me about his wife and kids. But the truth is, the closer we get to the campus, the more anxiety builds up, causing bile to rise up my throat. I hate this feeling. Maybe it’s because my aunt kept telling me to be careful repeatedly over the past few weeks. She’s worried about me and I get it. But the fear I saw in her eyes wasn’t reassuring as I hugged her goodbye earlier.