the father figure. | :: sunday photo fiction ::


She turned seven last night. From the pictures Rodney gave me, she grew into a fine-looking girl with gaps between her teeth and hands under her chin as she struck a pose for the camera. Her mother was nowhere to be seen in those photos, but I knew the locked hands around my daughter were hers.

Four years after my imprisonment for murder, I still searched for my daughter’s skin; the way her tiny fingers graze on my stubble or the small sound of her choke. Her promising eyes held my sanity and I had memorized how it glowed to keep myself still during my mad hours.

My private investigator said the new father figure would be out for the New Year’s Eve. I waited until all the lights in the prison went out before I pulled the chaffed brick walls behind my makeshift bed. Rodney would take care of the imprints I left until the only evidence the police could see was dusts.

As I sneaked out of the prison, I stood outside their new house. The clock spoke midnight and all the lights beamed. The fireworks exploded above the dark skies. I grinned—time to return home.


Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.

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