Contest Entries

#QuickHideBehindTheSofa

COMPETITION WINNER - 1ST PLACE

(919 Words)

I was watching a predictable, cliché TV series on Netflix when I heard two large knocks against our front door. My father awoke from his afternoon slumber and jumped to his feet.  "Quick! Hide behind the sofa!" he exclaimed before diving behind our stained, worn out sofa. I rolled my eyes and stood up from the couch, peering over to see my father trembling in a foetal position. "It's not going to make them go away," I sighed. He shushed me like we were in a life or death situation. I opened the front door and was greeted by officer Brady. 

"Is your father in?" he enquired. Officer Brady was a frequent visitor to our flat for all the wrong reasons. You see, my father is a drug addict. He regularly gets involved in petty crime and steals money whenever he needs another hit of meth or whatever else he's taking. Despite numerous visits to rehab, nothing has worked and he gets worse everyday it seems. Nowadays, he acts like a paranoid child that refuses to do anything other than get high - a child I feel compelled to look after. 

"He's not here right now," I lied. "What do you want him for?" The officer gave me a look that made me feel certain he knew I was lying. 

"He's been seen roaming the streets, trying to pickpocket people and acting disorderly." The officer tried to peep his head around the door but I pressed the front door against my side as much as I could, to prevent him seeing all the syringes, beer bottles and cigarette butts that were sprawled all over the living room.  

"Okay, well I'll let you know if he comes home." I forced a smile and tried to shut the door, but the officer stopped me. I looked up at the officer from under my brow. "Yes?" I asked.

Officer Brady gave me a sympathetic, almost patronising look. "Your father needs help and keeping him hidden isn't going to solve anything."  His comment aggravated me. He didn't understand what it was like to be in my situation and he didn't realise all I had tried to get my father help but to no avail. I was fed up of people trying to tell me how I should handle things when they had no experience with what I was dealing with. I've been doing the best I could for me and my father. I narrowed my eyes, trying to hold back the rude comments that were writhing to come out. 

"I am aware, but he's not here. Good day, sir." I said through clenched teeth. The officer raised his eyebrow, sensing my resentment at his presence. 

"I'll leave you to it then, ma'am." He responded as I closed the door on him. I leant my back against the front door and looked up towards the ceiling. I couldn't live like this. This isn't what other teenagers had to deal with. No-one should have to look after their father at my age, especially when he needs help for something he's brought on himself. What else can I do?

"Are they gone?" My father's head popped up from behind the sofa, beads of cold sweat on his forehead. I don't think he'd ever looked so pale. He hadn't had a hit for a couple of hours. I nodded and began to walk to the kitchen. My father went for another unsterilized syringe. He stank of cigarette smoke and week old sweat. I can't put up with this. He's beyond help. He's nothing but a shell of who he is. I don't know who my father is any more. 

A knife lay on the counter top. I had never looked at one the way I was now. It was an object of liberation, of normality. I heard my father grunt in anger, his syringe probably broke again. My hand stroked the plastic handle of the knife. I felt a tingling of adrenaline flow up through my arm and it soon filled my entire body. My knuckles whitened as I clenched onto the knife and the idea of freedom. Silently, I walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. My father was unconscious on his recliner chair, a tourniquet around his bicep and blood trickled from the injection site. He looked peaceful, but it was a fake peace that he couldn't get enough of. A peace that had ruined his and my life. I watched his chest raise and lower, savouring his last few breaths for him, etching memories of his living body into my mind. 

Rage filled every cell of my body as I pounded the knife repeatedly into his chest. I heard gasps of air leave his mouth, each time I punctured his thorax. He was so high, he barely opened his eyes or reacted. It angered me further. He never paid attention to me and now he was too high to pay attention to his own death. 

His body was riddled with 27 stab wounds before I heard him gurgle and more blood poured from his mouth. Warm blood trickled down my hand and dripped from the knife. I could feel the blood on my face - it was the feeling of liberty. A smile adorned my face. It was the first genuine smile I'd experienced in a long time. 

I heard two knocks at the front door. Officer Brady called out, "I have some questions I need you to answer about your father's whereabouts."