Day 24
The news of my father’s death hit me like a blunt knife—more numb than pain. I had convinced myself that he was still out there, lost within the crowded streets of some neon lit city on the other side of the planet. I tried to get my hands on the police reports, but no cop in their right mind would give an eight-year-old anything, though even if I were able to obtain them, the foreign characters they were written in were like hieroglyphics which were as much of a mystery to me as my father’s disappearance.
My “investigation,” gradually turned into nothing more than the desperate imagination of a boy hanging on to the last slivers of hope. While other kids my age were helplessly distracted by their pubescent wet dreams, I was crafting stories in my head of vengeance and revenge, charging in head first to rescue my father. In my mind, I was Sherlock Holmes, Batman, and ...
But soon these dreams would be locked away. Locked away for years and replaced by nightmares. However, these nightmares were very real.
