Year 10 Otago Girls’ High School
The grey, dreary mist followed my car like a cat tracking its prey.
Gravel crunched beneath my tyres and the pine trees that lined the driveway loomed over me. A bolt of lightning cracked, lighting up the gloomy sky for just a second. I sped up. An ominous feeling crawled up my spine.
As I rounded the corner, the house came into view. A once beautiful white mansion, now fallen into disrepair, sat among the unruly, mischievous bush. Vines coiled up its pillars and a spider web of cracks ran across the ruined marble. I climbed out of the car.
The wind tossed my hair into my face. The door creaked open, revolving on its hinges.
I looked behind me. Shadows and mist swirled into one. I turned back and walked up towards the door. The crunch of gravel beneath my feet sounded ear-splittingly loud in the silence.
I tiptoed up the steps, pushed the door open and stepped inside. Darkness encompassed me.
"Dad?" I called out. I couldn't shake the creeping feeling that something bad was going to happen. Or had happened.
Dad usually kept the lights on, it wasn't like the cost of electricity was a worry for him. The wind howled. I shivered. Iflicked on the lights.
The place was in a total state of disarray. The flower pots that usually sat on the tables that lined the hallway, were smashed, water, glass and wilted flowers strewn across the floor.
Books had been thrown, pages torn and soaked from the water. A fist-sized hole had been punched into the wall, plaster dust coating the glossy tiles.
"Dad?" My voice came out trembling "Dad, are you here?" My question was met with chilling silence. I tiptoed over and around the pools of water and glass.
Then I saw the blood.
It must've only been a drop but it had tainted a dinner-plate-sized puddle completely pink. I gasped but I continued.
There was more blood. The puddles got darker as I got further down the hall. I was shaking, but I knew I had to find Dad. And help him if I could.
I started to run, discarding my attempt to keep my shoes clean. Blood and water splashed on to my jeans. I reached the end of the hallway and slowed down. I was afraid of what I was going to find.
The hall opened out on to the familiar open-plan living, dining, kitchen area. On the right, lived a large leather corner couch, which sat in front of the 60-inch TV, which Stacey and I used to play video games on.
We always begged Mum to play, but she never would. In the middle sat a long dining table, ready for up to 20 guests.
I remember Stacey and I playing kings and queens, where we would take turns to each sit at the head of the table, pretending to be a queen waiting for her king. And on the left was the kitchen. It had a massive island. And there was blood. So much blood.
Bloody handprints littered the edge of the island and droplets spotted the floor. The tap dripped, counting down waiting. Waiting for me to turn the corner and see what was there.
I took a step, drip, drip, drip. And another, drip, drip. I took a deep breath, three, two, one, and turned the corner.
I screamed — a high, blood-curdling, drawn-out wail. Dad was slumped on the floor, limbs sticking out at odd angles.
His eyes glistened, white as milk. He was wearing his grey sweatpants and a navy hoodie but they were both stained red. Bright, brilliant red, the colour of roses. The blood pooled around him, a circular frame.
I sank to my knees, my scream reducing to sobs. I cradled his body in my arms. He was heavy, but I didn’t care. "Not you too, Dad. No. Don’t leave me." But he was gone already. His body was cold, and I was shivering. I lay him down and closed his eyes. "Goodbye Dad. Go be with Mum," I whispered into his ear.
