"Daniel!" I hear, slowly opening my eyes. "Daniel!"
My father stands above me, with obvious scratch marks on his cheek, where I had tried to fight him. My eyes swell up, and I realise from the blood on his hands, he's either hurt someone, or they've hurt him.
I gather my thoughts, and I try to turn my head to my left. My head isn't moving. Well, I can see. I lift my hands, I can move them too. I can't feel my legs though.
I can't walk. I let out a large cry of frustration, and allow myself to calm before my father walks back into the room, and picks me up.
I hang on his back as he jogs through a series of doors and corridors. He appears to know where he's going, even if I don't. He stuffs a white tablet in my mouth before I can resist it.
As he runs through a few more pristine, white doors, I gradually gain the feeling in my legs again. He pulls out a gun from his pocket, and slumps me to the floor. He still looks drunk, even if he's managing to stay upright. For once he seems like he has a brain.
Then he points the gun in my direction.
"Who've you been speaking too?" he whispers. He puts on his urgent-style voice, and seems worried. He repeats the question, each time, more violently.
He gives me that glare – the one I get whenever he demands an answer. It's the glare that means I can't refuse responding. I hate it. And I hate him.
He keeps glaring at me, as if I’m not going to answer. What scares me most, is that I haven’t told anyone, and he thinks I have. If I say that I haven’t, he won’t believe me.
“I… I… I ha…” I build my confidence. Why should I trust him anyway? He knocked me out, and gave me a white tablet that restored feeling to my body, and he still gives away a foul stench of beer.
“I haven’t. I haven’t told anyone.” I say, flinching, as I imagine the consequences.
“You have. I can see when you’re lying,” he replies. Well, that sums up his ‘magical powers’. I’m not lying, and yet, he can tell that I am.
“Tell me, or you’ll end up like the last person who got in my way.” He shouts in a muffled voice. I guess he’s talking about the dead body on his bed. So, he is a murderer then.
I hear a crunch, and he falls to the floor. His eye smokes.
Wait, his eye smokes?
I shake him, and he doesn’t respond. I place my fingers to his wrist, and then to his neck. No pulse.
I press down on his stomach – it’s what I was told to do in an emergency. 30 compressions. Done. Now the bit I don’t like. ‘Mouth to mouth’ is what they call it. The kiss of life. It’s disgusting. Why, in a modern age, have we not invented a way around it?
My lips press to his, and I taste the beer around his mouth. Stubble connects with his skin, and a blow, quite hard, and I close his mouth. I feel a gentle breeze along my cheek. I forgot to pinch his nose shut. I wipe the green slime from my cheek, and pinch his nose. Let’s try that again.
His stomach rises this time. 30 more times.
It doesn’t work. He’s dead.