text: Eeeeerk. I woke up groggily to the sound of my door opening. A familiar figure stood at the edge of my bed. &#x200B; “Hello John.” my father’s trembling voice spoke softly. &#x200B; Terrified, I hid my head under a pillow. I couldn’t look at him, I had hoped to never see him again. I hoped to graduate, change my name, and leave this town forever. \*\*\* I still vividly remember the day, 4 years ago, that the police showed up to search our house. I remember being locked in my room, peeking out the window to look at what I thought were soldiers, despite my mother telling me not to. I remember the barking of the dogs in the back yard, and my mother’s screams after they dug the first body out. Finally, I remember them taking my father away in a police car, the last glimpse of him I’ve had. You see, the police say my father killed 7 children, 7 that they found anyway. &#x200B; I was twelve then. Ever since that day I have lived in what I can only describe as a dystopia. No one trusts me. I have no friends. You’d think I was wearing a costume the way the other students look at me. I feel completely isolated and alone. Who can blame everyone? When they see me, they are reminded of their friend, son, or cousin who they all believe were killed by my father. That kind of anguish and frustration is hard to express rationally. I would look funny at me, too. I live in a community in pain, and everyone relates me to the source. &#x200B; My mother hasn’t been the same since, which isn’t really surprising. She spends most of her time drinking and watching reruns of old TV shows from her childhood. I think she wants to forget she grew up, forget she got married, and even forget me. I remember calling her two years ago on the phone. &#x200B; “Hi mom, I forgot my lunch on the counter, do you think you can drop it off at school on your way to work?” &#x200B; There was a long pause, but I could faintly hear her sniffling, as if she was crying over the phone. &#x200B; “Mom, are you okay, it sounds like you are crying.” &#x200B; “You sound like... You sound like your father.” She said, barely able to say the words as she cried, her anguish apparent in every syllable. &#x200B; She never speaks to me anymore. It hurts her too much. I can’t imagine the pain in her eyes if I had told her father escaped, but she was already passed out drunk when the news broke. \*\*\* “Take the pillow off, John, I want to see my son” he trembled. I could tell he was crying. &#x200B; I couldn’t even muster words to say to him, so I just shook my head. I could feel a force push into the pillow and rip it from my face. Immediately, my eyes met his. He looked so different than I remembered him, there was so much pain in his eyes. My heart immediately fell to my stomach; I felt broken looking at him. When I looked at my poor mother eyes, glossed over with a haze of booze, I can blame it on my father. The tearful eyes of my classmates, mourning the loss of those kids before every football game, I can blame on my father. But my father’s sad blue eyes were all my fault. I hadn’t felt that before. He knew I killed those kids. &#x200B; “I sacrificed everything to save you, John.” He cried, pressing his tear-dampened lips to my forehead “but I love you.” &#x200B; I struggled to get a word to come out, but I finally sobbed ‘It didn’t work.” \*\*\* They caught my father as he left my house, and he went back to jail. But now, every drink my mother downs, and every pregame prayer, I feel that same pain. If I was in a dystopia, I’m now in pure hell.