The Suspect

Chapter 10

*not edited*

Out the window, stands a small child. Right in the middle of a huge playground, surrounded by many little children alike. However, this one stands out. He looks around, in search of something. His gaze lands on a big, blue balloon. His curiosity gets the better of him, and he follows the balloon. And now he's gone—blended and merged with the many other children, nowhere to be found. Just like that, a child that was right at the center, center of attention and attraction, slowly faded. The fade caused by a balloon—an external force or magnet driving the child towards itself, and no matter how much the child doesn't want to leave, he thinks with his mind—not heart—and lets it consume him, thus disappear—

Honk. Honk. Honk!!!

The rapid honking of the car behind me pulls me out of my imagination and back onto the road, where the light has now turned green. Great.

I look into the rearview mirror, displaying an apologetic smile, and waving at the driver, hoping they saw me before I put my foot on the accelerator and drive past the light.

The drive to my dad's house is always captivating to me. I visit him either every weekend or once in two weeks since he lives down south of LA, in San Diego. Given my work schedule, it's impossible for me to drive two hours during the week, so I leave the weekend completely free so that I can visit him.

I glance at the dashboard, the time reading fifteen past six in the evening. Half an hour to go. I turn on the radio, and when no station plays any good songs, I reach for my aux wire and tell Siri to play my driving playlist. Driving by myself and listening to music is something I absolutely love doing. The sense of freedom, to sing no matter how much like a dying cat I sound, it's blissful.

I rhythmically tap my finger on the steering wheel, tapping to the beat of the music and a half-hour goes by in the blink of an eye. I see my dad's house, the memories rushing through me. Some bitter, some sweet. I pull into the driveway and park the car. Grabbing my small bag, I head to the door and open it.

"I'm here!" I joyfully yell but get no response in return. I drop my bag and hang my coat, walking further into the house when a toasty, bitter smell makes its way up my nose. Oh no, please tell me he's not....

"Cooking again, I see," I sigh as I watch my dad pacing back and forth in the kitchen. He turns around at my voice, and his face lights up.

"You're here!" he bursts with his hands in the air.

I grin as I take in his attire of choice: bright pink oven mitts cover his hands, a few sizes too big for his. The thing that cracks me up is the apron he's wearing, the one with the words "I'll feed all you bitches" scrawled in bold letters across it. I chuckle at it, but my chuckle soon dies down as I take a good look at the scene in front of me.

A mess wouldn't even begin to describe what I'm looking at. The kitchen—or what was a kitchen—is now completely demolished. The island is covered with big bowls where green liquid slowly drips out of one. The others are toppled over, the contents painting quite a beautiful picture on the surface. Several pans take up the stove, clouds of smoke fogging up the window pane right behind it. I would further describe other things but I'm afraid it would take the whole day to go over.

"This...looks lovely," I deadpan and he frowns, itching his head.

"Well I wanted to cook you a wonderful dinner but—well you see, I did try though," he gestures towards the mess, and his mouth curves into a lop-sided smile.

My heart warms at his effort and I smile at the feeling. It's nice having that one person you can count on no matter what. For me, it's him so I stalk over to where he is and give him a warm hug, which takes him by surprise.