Papa, Can You Hear Me?

Greece, 2030, Post-World War 3. Greece have been kicked out of the EU. Many are left starving, and some have died. Wren, a twelve year old girl, is abandoned when her father is visciously attacked by a wolf on the streets. Left to fend for herself, the ony thing that really scares her is these visions she always has about her Mother being captured by "the enemy". When she finds out where her mother, originally thought to be dead, could be held, nothing will stand in her way to find it.

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11. Papa

The chill instantaneously slithered over me, sending a shudder down my spine. There was a black chair, twisted to face the wall, with two threatening points protruding from the top edges. On the solid wooden desk in front, there was a statue of a butterfly my Mama used to have, a shimmering royal blue which was so realistic I expected at any second for its wings to flutter happily. My attention flicked back when the chair gradually began to twist round, and I was anxious to see who was behind it… Were they friend or foe?

To my horror, when the chair span leisurely round, the face before me was hooded, and their cape drooped balefully over their pale face like a wilted flower. My heart was racing and beating out of time like an amateur drummer as one bony hand, flexing slowly and painfully reached up towards the hood enveloping it, a elongated blue vein jutting out from beneath the skin. I caught my breath from the silence hanging in the air. The hand grasped the hood firmly, crumpling it. There came from beneath the cloak, a low, heartless guffaw, as they drew back to reveal… “Papa” I murmured, my throat closing with the dry realisation that had been hurled at me. I almost fell to the floor, and it felt like the wind had been hauled out of my lungs in a millisecond. He sighed, and got up shakily off his chair, his face rotted by the darkness and shadows that devoured him. I tried to run but my body had become too frail to sprint off in the spur of the moment. The only sound that broke the stillness was the monotonous tap of him sluggishly trudging over to me. He knelt down and I flinched because his knees cracked, and lifted my chin up so I was staring into his sunken, decayed expression that was unoccupied of any kind of emotion. I tried to pull away, although he just stiffened his grip on my jaw until a tear streamed down my parched cheeks. “Oh, Darling” he drawled, spit falling of his lips as he spoke “You really do have your Mother’s eyes.”

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