Page 9 - SpontaneousSuccessMatos

And then, the guttural roar of a car engine. A sleek,
black beast of a car, its chrome gleaming menacingly in
the winter sunshine, screeched to a halt at the bottom of
the steps, my Uncle Harry behind the wheel.
“Nicholas." He said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth,
"Your dad's dead. Get in.”
The world lurched, the ground unsteady beneath my
feet. The church, the bishop, the confirmation – all of it
dissolved into a meaningless blur, leaving only those
three words hanging in the air. Dead. My dad. The news
hit me like a physical blow, stealing my breath and
leaving me gasping in the sudden vacuum of loss.
He bundled me into the car, the leather seats cold
against my skin, the smell of stale cigarettes and
aftershave filling my nostrils. Back to school. Back to the
prison of routine and rigid expectations. He pressed five
shillings into my palm and then he was gone, leaving me
standing on the gravel driveway, the weight of the world
pressing down on my shoulders.
That evening I bawled my eyes out in the narrow
alleyway between the woodwork shop and the gym. I
crumpled and hit the walls many times but I held myself
up and never fell over. I cried for my dad. I cried for my
mum. And I cried for my brother.
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