22nd August
Aristotle,
Something terrible has happened, Aristotle. Captain is gone. It's the early hours of the morning and I write to you from underneath my covers. I am torn right now. There is a part of me that wants to run to mama, throw my arms around her and rock with her, back and forth. Another part of me wants to pull my covers back over my head and try my best to let sleep take me.
They came late last night, late enough that I was in my pyjamas, sitting cross-legged on my bed with my laptop open in front of me. I was skyping with Ahmed, and as usual he was making me laugh. I chortled so hard at some point as his spot-on imitation of Miss Pip that the lemon tea I had been sipping nearly came right out of my nose. Our conversation had begun to get a bit intense when I heard a faint crash. I rolled my eyes and gestured with my hands for Ahmed to go on. Mama's piercing shriek came suddenly and startled both of us, causing me to spill my tea all over my Christopher Robin duvet. I blew a kiss at Ahmed and told him not to worry as I cut the call. My feet carried me really fast down the stairs.
There were three big men in our front room, gargantuan even. They were clad tackily in all-black complete with ski masks, eyeholes cut out. The vase that Mama had gotten last year on her trip to Beijing was broken all over the Turkish carpet, smashed to bits. There had obviously been a struggle. Daddy was being held by the two biggest men, blood dripping from a head wound. Mama was sprawled on the floor; sobs racked her body as she lay there. The smallest of the men, the one who looked to be in charge of the operation, looked up, right into my eyes. His eyes were pitch black and so cold, devoid of any emotion. I dreamt about those eyes later that night. Captain's eyes just looked sad, sad and remorseful. I knew that the man they held captive was not my papa. Fear filled me, and I fled, running straight into my room and diving under the covers. Its two am and I have been here ever since.
