to go
Daytime television was so boring. I sat on my father’s white leather sofa, eating chips, my feet on the coffee table and the remote in my hand. I flicked channels rapidly. A cooking show, a documentary on whales and a soap-opera were not viable options.
“Ugh.” I turned the television off and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was only mid-day and I was bored out of my mind. I’d barely been at my father’s house for twenty-four hours and already I was crawling out of my skin.
I needed a distraction – something - anything to take my mind off the prickling pain in my heart.
Stuffing the last of the chips into my mouth I hopped up from the now crumb-infested sofa and marched into my father’s office. I crossed the room and sat at his desk, opening his laptop and booting it up.
Password protected. Typical .
I looked around the room for ideas for a moment before typing in my father’s birthday. No luck.
I clicked the ‘hint’ icon.
My favo rite person.
I rolled my eyes. That was obvious. My father loved John Lennon, so I typed that in.
Password rejected.
“What? No way.” I tried a number of different combinations.
JLennon. JohnL. Lennon. Beatles. None worked.
I leaned back in the chair and stared at the login screen for a few moments . My eyes wandered across my father’s desk, falling on a small framed picture of me when I was a little girl. This time I typed in my own name.
The welcome screen evaporated to reveal my father’s desktop; a nother picture of me as a small child a few months before the attack. My smile was radiant and my eyes still had a glint of hope.
I felt an overwhelming surge of affection for my father at that moment, but it was alm ost instantly replaced by guilt.
After searching Google for “cell rentals” and finding nothing but cell-phones and pornography I spent the remainder of the day looking at funny cat videos online – until my father came home announcing that I would have my own bed by tomorrow. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it had probably been a waste of money.
Thursday – 2 days to go
My father was becoming frantic. It was only two days until my transformation was due and we hadn’t found anywhere suitable for me to go. We’d thought of everything. Abandoned warehouses, jail cells, attics and basements had all been considered. It wasn’t until ten o’clock on Thursday night that my father came skidding into the living room, cell phone clutched in his hand with a grin on his face.
“I’ve figured it out,” he said.
“Yeah?” I continued flicking channels and didn’t look up.
“A friend of mine from work has an old bomb shelter and he will be away over the weekend to visit his wife’s parents. The place will be deserted.”
“He has a bomb shelter?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Who has a bomb shelter ?”
“He’s one of those survivalists.” My father gave a small shrug. “But it’s perfect.”
I nodded slowly. “Sounds good. So he said we could use it?”
“ I’ll ask him tomorrow at work. I’ll make up some story.”
“You’d better hope he says yes.” I turned back to the television. I’d become a real couch-potato over the last few days. Heartache – it made you less active.
“He’s been trying to get me into the whole survivalist thing for ages. He’ll be ecstatic that I’ve finally taken an interest.”
Saturday – 0 days to go
I was ill – so ill I couldn’t think straight. I felt like I was going through withdrawals. My body was on fire, but I was shivering violently. Sweat covered my skin making my hair damp and my teeth chattered violently.
“Almost there, Rosie,” my father crooned as we drove along a narrow dirt road.
“It’s coming,” I moaned against the passenger seat window, the glass fogging from my breath.
“It’s all right. You’ve still got fifteen minutes.”
“It hurts.” Tears stung my eyes. My ribs felt as though they were breaking
Daytime television was so boring. I sat on my father’s white leather sofa, eating chips, my feet on the coffee table and the remote in my hand. I flicked channels rapidly. A cooking show, a documentary on whales and a soap-opera were not viable options.
“Ugh.” I turned the television off and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was only mid-day and I was bored out of my mind. I’d barely been at my father’s house for twenty-four hours and already I was crawling out of my skin.
I needed a distraction – something - anything to take my mind off the prickling pain in my heart.
Stuffing the last of the chips into my mouth I hopped up from the now crumb-infested sofa and marched into my father’s office. I crossed the room and sat at his desk, opening his laptop and booting it up.
Password protected. Typical .
I looked around the room for ideas for a moment before typing in my father’s birthday. No luck.
I clicked the ‘hint’ icon.
My favo rite person.
I rolled my eyes. That was obvious. My father loved John Lennon, so I typed that in.
Password rejected.
“What? No way.” I tried a number of different combinations.
JLennon. JohnL. Lennon. Beatles. None worked.
I leaned back in the chair and stared at the login screen for a few moments . My eyes wandered across my father’s desk, falling on a small framed picture of me when I was a little girl. This time I typed in my own name.
The welcome screen evaporated to reveal my father’s desktop; a nother picture of me as a small child a few months before the attack. My smile was radiant and my eyes still had a glint of hope.
I felt an overwhelming surge of affection for my father at that moment, but it was alm ost instantly replaced by guilt.
After searching Google for “cell rentals” and finding nothing but cell-phones and pornography I spent the remainder of the day looking at funny cat videos online – until my father came home announcing that I would have my own bed by tomorrow. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it had probably been a waste of money.
Thursday – 2 days to go
My father was becoming frantic. It was only two days until my transformation was due and we hadn’t found anywhere suitable for me to go. We’d thought of everything. Abandoned warehouses, jail cells, attics and basements had all been considered. It wasn’t until ten o’clock on Thursday night that my father came skidding into the living room, cell phone clutched in his hand with a grin on his face.
“I’ve figured it out,” he said.
“Yeah?” I continued flicking channels and didn’t look up.
“A friend of mine from work has an old bomb shelter and he will be away over the weekend to visit his wife’s parents. The place will be deserted.”
“He has a bomb shelter?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Who has a bomb shelter ?”
“He’s one of those survivalists.” My father gave a small shrug. “But it’s perfect.”
I nodded slowly. “Sounds good. So he said we could use it?”
“ I’ll ask him tomorrow at work. I’ll make up some story.”
“You’d better hope he says yes.” I turned back to the television. I’d become a real couch-potato over the last few days. Heartache – it made you less active.
“He’s been trying to get me into the whole survivalist thing for ages. He’ll be ecstatic that I’ve finally taken an interest.”
Saturday – 0 days to go
I was ill – so ill I couldn’t think straight. I felt like I was going through withdrawals. My body was on fire, but I was shivering violently. Sweat covered my skin making my hair damp and my teeth chattered violently.
“Almost there, Rosie,” my father crooned as we drove along a narrow dirt road.
“It’s coming,” I moaned against the passenger seat window, the glass fogging from my breath.
“It’s all right. You’ve still got fifteen minutes.”
“It hurts.” Tears stung my eyes. My ribs felt as though they were breaking
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