Eight
Part 1. Micro Chp. 13
The crippling pain had begun to ebb, leaving me with enough strength to release the stronghold grip of one of my hands and wipe at the tears clinging to my face. Don’t you dare, it’s not dad, I thought. It’s just a stupid, cardboard box.
Angered at my childish behaviour —but convinced I could open it and not cry again— I fumbled to find the edge of the tape, ripped it off, and then folded back the flaps. I stretched an arm above my head, grabbed the phone and shone the light inside the box.
All I could see were piles of scarves, ties and some other stuff my dad had chosen to give away. I unwound a scarf from the pile and wrapped it around my neck, a burning need to have something that belonged to him close to me. It didn’t matter if he never liked the damn thing, it had been his and that’s all that mattered.
Keeping the tears in check, my focus blurred, I placed the phone on the shelf beside me and rummaged through the contents until I found the torch shoved at the bottom. He really couldn‘t have liked it, I thought. Nevertheless, I was just relieved he hadn‘t thrown it away. I carefully took it out, pulled at the handle and wound it up.
Satisfied, I ran my fingers over the buttons, pushed one and almost dropped it when a burst of static erupted from out of the torch. I wished my dad had read the instructions, because I bet he didn’t even know it had a built-in radio as well. Still, could be a handy thing to have. I tried again and pushed another button. A beam of bluish-white light lit the other side of the garage.
Time to go.
Copyright © by Sarah NeeveEight, may not be copied, shared or unlawfully used without the prior consent of the author.
Inspire the Idea 