The clock ticks loudly every second that passes, no one else but I observe.
Alone in this room I stand as I await my father, who should be home by now. I stare out the window as I do, out at the yard he parks in.
Hours and hours have passed, the garage door now barricaded by snow. I see no trace of his car.
Surprise! he exclaims as he touches my shoulders from behind. I do not react. I no longer get surprised by these endeavors, but an attempt well-understood. I made you a present. I tell him as I lead him to my room.
He sees the shirt I knitted for him, and wears it right away. A perfect fit. He comments as the observes the weaving. Come to the living room, I put your gift there. He informs as he now leads the way.
It's a photo album. He says as I unwrap it, revealing its hardcover. How lovely. I comment as I flip through the pages.
There are no pictures of me here, there is only him. Does it not bother you that I never seem to talk my age? I ask as I flip through more of its pages. No, it never will. He replies eagerly.
Of course you wouldn't. You wouldn't know what a child sounds like, as I am only in your mind.
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories (reconstructed)
ContoThis is a reconstructed anthology of the randomly generated stories I had in mind during 2015. (Read segment title for the list of unsettling content in each category)
