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I wish I could forget my father's murder.
In this day and age, it was common for someone to get shot or stabbed at night. Especially with the curfew the world's sole leader, The President, instilled. Five o'clock every night, a monotone voice would come across the speakers announcing that curfew was happening. At the top of the hour, the guards on the street would choose their weapon of choice and murder anyone out on the street. It wasn't uncommon to hear gunshots being fired at all hours of the night.
My father, Titus, was someone who I looked up to my entire life. He was a man who, beating all the odds of our world, managed to rise above the rest. My Dad managed to secure himself a well-paying job in The President's New World society. Thinking back on this now, it amazes me how he was able to do this since so many people in the New World lived in slums. They had nothing. My father, he traveled back and forth from place to place for The President to obtain inside knowledge on rebellion camps. He told me stories of these camps and it enthralled me. Some of the stories he told me fascinated me; especially the one he visited in Old Scotland frequently.
The night my father died, I was in the living room in my pajamas. My mum and sister, Holliday, were cleaning up from dinner while I sat by the large windowsill at the front of my house. I used to do this so I could watch for my father come home. I would sit here from about four until he got home. My eyes stayed focused on the street; I could always tell which ones had the farthest to go. The people who were behind schedule were running with perspiration blotting their clothes.
My father came home with more of a run in his step which I remember finding odd. His arms tightly held his worn leather bag that he took everywhere. Dad had it clutched to his chest as he ran to the door, briskly swinging it open and then slamming it shut. I got off the windowsill; I probably had this stupid grin on my face as I looked at him. I was always more than elated that he was home before curfew. He walked up to me, his arm stretched outwards and brought me into a hug, kissing my forehead. My sister might have been there, but she also could have been in the kitchen, I don't really remember him coming home that well.
Holliday must have been there at some point in time because I remember her going off to help Mum finish cleaning up from dinner. My Dad turned to me as soon as she left. His eyes darkened and he clasped his large hand on my shoulder. Since I hadn't quite hit my growth spurt yet, he had to bend at the knee and look into his thirteen-year-old's eyes.
"Jameson, my boy, we need to have a chat," he whispered hurriedly. "We haven't got much time."
As soon as he said that, he took my shoulder and rushed me down the hallway. At thirteen, I stumbled easily and tripped over my untied shoelaces that I tucked into the sides of my trainers (I thought I was cool, okay). So my father hurriedly rushing me down the hallway wasn't ideal for my lanky stature.
