The hardest Thing to Do
My world is falling apart. My family are gone, my dad is infected, my grandparents have been struggling to live for years now and I have been beaten, smashed and stabbed almost to the point of death. I am fed up and I am fighting for my life. And to top that all off, my dad is standing before me. He isn’t attacking, he is just staring at me.
I think he recognises me but I can’t be sure. His eyes are set back in his head. I never thought he could become like this. He has changed for the worse ever since he has become infected. I haven’t seen him for years but I have ran into him here. He is bleeding, badly. He must have been attacked.
The question I have is where are the rest of the family? Are they dead, infected or are they on the run like me? He opens his mouth to say something. His teeth are red, instead of saliva coming out, a thick red liquid slowly forms a pool on the floor. A thought comes over me. A thought so bad it sends a shiver down my spine. Could my Dad really do what I am picturing? Could he have beaten someone to the point of death?
I know he is not the man he used to be but he has still taken a person’s life. This all becomes too much for me. Before I knew what I was doing I pulled the trigger. The bang followed and then the impact. My Dad falls to the floor, twitching as he lay before my eyes. I bent down beside him, cursing myself for pulling the trigger. A flood of happy memories washes over me. The time he woke me up on my birthday, surprising me with a new bike being the most vivid memory.
My Dad’s eyes lighten, he mumbles something but I didn’t catch it. He mumbles again, “thank you”.
That lifts the guilt, but only a small part. He stiffened and finally became still.
I had murdered my own Dad. But in a way, I have set him free from the life-long curse.