Sam opened the front door, walked calmly into the living room; met his Dad’s gaze, as he turned his head from the television screen and over into
Sam’s direction, then blew his Dad’s head off. Sam lowered the gun to his side and smiled.
Not that Sam thought of ‘THAT man as his Father. His Father had died 8 weeks ago in a car crash, coming home from a friend’s stag night in
He loved his Dad dearly, with every cell in his body, even with his ‘all too often’ strict attitude towards his own path in life, his Dad was his
‘Don’t do this Sam, don’t do that Sam! Why for crying out loud! I thought I brought you up better than this Sam!’ those were the words all too
often used by his Dad; which he took to be, in his early teen years, as sheer disappointment in him but he learned that he only wanted the very the
best for his only Son.
They were close as a Father and Son could be, especially in the later years of his life. That along with his loving Mother, they had the ideal family
life. At the age of 23, his life was fantastic, not that he knew or appreciated that. Hind-sight was something he wished could have been fore-told. He
knew his Father would have thought that too, maybe.
His Dad’s mind was always a wild banshee ride of sanity and insanity; all knitted together in a garment of opposing views and thought processes.
Only his Dad made those fibres stick together through his weaving of objectivity and creativity, some may have called it pure insanity but he was the
clever guy. No subject became unstuck, or so it seemed.
8 Weeks earlier.
The news of his Father’s death hit him like a sledge-hammer, his Mum too. The utter disbelief and acknowledgement couldn’t be reconciled. The
tears flowed; the uncontrollable sobs of utter sadness gripped his household like death had descended onto anyone who entered the house-hold.
His Mother took it the hardest, locking herself into her bedroom refusing to eat for days. Only Sam’s pleas for her help him drew her back into the
living. After the funeral, ghosts of his Dad kept popping up almost every day. Letters addressed to him, telephone calls from people trying to sell
him double glazed windows or PPI , asking to speak to him by name, all giving him weight to the denial that he and his Mother held; that he was still
alive somewhere. That or he was so small and insignificant to the World he had no impact. He often thought, how can people’ not know he had passed
or even care beyond the ‘feigned’, yet honest sorrow it was met with by them upon learning the news.
He felt it in-side, his Dad was there with him, even in death.
6 weeks later.
The Taylor house-hold had become a very different place. He had become the strength and resolve his Father had left behind.
He switched off the TV and headed up-to his bedroom, it had been a long day. As he reached the top of the stairs he felt a wave of love from the sound
of muted snoring coming from his Mother’s room. At last he thought, she is sleeping well again.
A restrained knock on the front door made him jump. He turned his head towards the door and then looked at his watch. ‘Half past eleven’ he
thought, ‘they can clear off!’.
Another three knocks, more firmer than the time before, interrupted his train of thought and he again turned his head towards the front door.
A little anger erupted from deep inside him at the inconsiderate person behind that wooden panel seeking their attention.
He marched off down the stair-case ready to give that person an un-friendly welcome.
He flung open the door to a dark slim figure, stood pensively in-front of him. His stomach jumped at the resemblance he couldn’t put into place. He
didn’t recognise the man by name, his age, eyes staring straight into his.
That silence lasted for a very uncomfortable and un-known length of time.
The thoughts of his Mother waking, soon stirred up the anger at being called upon at that late hour.
His gaze broke.
“Yeah?” Sam barked
Silence. The man stepped back as if taken a-back by his stark reaction.
Sam felt a little wave of guilt creep over him at the tone he gave to the familure stranger but felt assured at his reaction due to the circumstances.
His eyes darted over the man features.
“What do you want?” Sam said
The stranger took another step back and his gaze broke, as if in deep thought.
Sam opened his mouth and the Stranger spoke
“Sam, it’s me!” the Stranger said, arms raised up, as if Sam had completely lost his mind and forgotten that it was his best friend stood there
right before him.
The uneasiness and familiarity the Stranger had with him and his complete lack of being able to identify that person took him off guard
“Sorry? Who?” Sam said
“Your Dad” the Stranger said, like he’d spoken the obvious, yet tinged with disappointment or maybe fears at what was to come.
To say the penny had dropped was a huge understatement. Who ever made that description had obviously never met their dead father who died at the age
of 67 in a car crash 6 weeks earlier, buried him; grieved for him and carried on the grief with no let-up in sight; only to then be standing right
in-front of him, at the age of; him, his only Son.
As soon as the stranger had said that word “Dad” that weird familiarity had smacked him in the face upon recalling an old photograph he’d seen
of his Father in University; one of many shown to him by his Mother in the previous weeks after his passing. Even though in black and white, the
resemblance made utter and complete sense to his initial reaction to the stranger. Denial kicked in. It wasn’t enough, his mid thought, his body
said another thing.
Sam felt like his brain had been hit by a bolt of lightning. That triple beat felt in his stomach and heart that seemed like he was going to burst
right open, right there on the front door of his house. The swathe of dizziness, all whilst trying harder to not only focus on the face of the person
but trying to take in what he just said…..He blacked out.
The smell of the cushion pressed firmly up against one side of his face, the only too recognisable scent landed his consciousness firmly at his
Mum’s house. The dim light cast from the twin lamps each set within two opposing ornament cabinets met his eyes.
THAT voice! Sam screamed in his mind. A repugnant wave of nausea hit him, as the only too distant memory flashed back into his mind from the earlier
encounter of that stranger filtered into him. Thoughts and memories even though very short snap-shots, showed images of his Dad’s funeral, the wake,
his grieving Mum.
“Sam! It’s okay, it’s me! I’m here!” the voice came.
A warm hand brushed his forehead like the hand of Satan touching his skin. He flicked his head off to the side to detach from its touch.
Sam’s body twisted and sprung off the settee before falling ungracefully into a heap onto the floor in-front of the settee.
He felt legs move over him then a dark shadow crouched down beside him.
“It’s okay Sammy, I’m sorry” the voice sounded pitiful yet un-reassuring.
“Get off me!” Sam shouted flailing his hands outward at the Stranger.
“Sammy!” came a pitiful response.
No-one had called him Sammy, only his Dad. Only when his Dad was being really affectionate or in distress.
“Get off me!” Sam muttered as he scrambled up off the floor and into the corner of the room, half crouching, trying to gain his balance; head
trans-fixed on the Stranger.
“Sam! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” the voice wept, his voice cracked with e
edit on 29-8-2012 by Tykonos because: (no reason