Book: The First - Part: Two - Chapter: 7 - Installment: i

          Sarah lay in through the morning and into afternoon. Sleep was intermittent, coming in fitful windows. She heard the door to her bedroom crack open a half dozen times. By her thinking, her father was checking in on her obsessively. She was home. She was safe. What could he think he was accomplishing by being so protective?

        I’m already the walking dead. How much does he think he can save me from?

        He would never imagine the truth. She almost didn’t believe it herself.

        Is this traumatic stress? Would I even think that, if it were? Did I imagine it all? If I did, then what the hell actually happened?

        She didn’t want to second guess herself. She could only really act on what she had seen. What she had witnessed.

        If I can get back there – get Dad to leave me alone for an afternoon – I can see it again for myself. Confirm what happened.

        There’s no way he’ll let me out of the house. I still have to explain what happened – what DIDN’T happen – to him… and to the police.


        There were plums in the fridge. How did that poem about cold plums for breakfast go? Something about hollow apologies…

        “By the time I figure out how to put words to how I feel right now, this is going to be a long way behind us.” His voice from behind her.

        She figured he was home, but hadn’t noticed her father enter the kitchen behind her.

        “I don’t expect I’ll ever know how you feel.” He continued, “I just know that you, somehow, are still here, when all those other kids are dead. Kiddo, I… you know that every day of my life I think about losing you. You’d think that somehow by now I’d be used to the idea, but…”

        As his words trailed off Sarah knew where his thoughts were leading. He didn’t have to say a thing. For her part she put her arms around his neck and held him tight.

        He was a big man, her father, and as he embraced her it was inevitable that he would lift her sleight body from her feet, but it was Sarah who comforted him as he began slowly to weep and then sob until eventually he sank to the floor, weak with pent up relief, wrought from the knowledge of how close he’d come to losing the most precious thing in his world.

        “I’m sorry.” He told her as he began to regain his composure, fully cognizant of the fact that it was her who had experienced the trauma, and she who should be the one requiring the support from him. “You shouldn’t have to be the one providing a shoulder. Whatever went on last night…. You can’t be expected to take care of me.”

        For her part Sarah was simply relieved to be spared the need of an explanation for the moment.

        “I’m okay, Dad. Whatever you need.”

        “No. It’s whatever you need. Look, the police are going to want to speak to you.” So much for dodging an explanation. She thought. “I’ll put them off as long as I can, but that isn’t going to last long. Tomorrow, maybe?”


        “In the meantime, if you want to talk about it…”

        “When I’m ready. I promise.”

     Chapter 8

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Necropolis by Kennedy Goodkey is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 Canada License.
Based on a work at necropolisnovels.blogspot.com.