'Dad? Why would Dad send me a letter?'
To satisfy his curiosity, John ripped the envelope open and pulled the letter that was perfectly tucked inside, opening and reading its contents.
John's father had a rather unique and hilarious way of initiating a written message, which mainly consisted of a lengthy monologue on the essentiality of life, and the briskness of one's state after their awakening to this particular concept. But John wasn't going to spend the entire night reading his father's monotonous philosophy. He instead skimmed through the entire write-up, his gaze drawn to one particular sentence at the bottom of the page:
'Happy 25th birthday to you. Wish you could be here. Dad x.'
John blinked several times as he re-read the line over and over again, unable to come to terms with the vague feeling welling up from within him.
'He actually remembered. He remembered my birthday.'
Even though the relationship between John and his father couldn't be considered the most firm, he—John, still wished he could spend more time with his father from time to time. But sadly, the nature of his work requires his twenty-four-seven presence at all times, barely giving him time for himself.
John wouldn't blame anyone who paints him as the reason behind their wavering relationship. He was, after all, the one who had made the decision to work for another company—rather than his dad's.
The company in question, although top-notch compared to others, had merged with another second-rate tech firm, giving rise to a massive increase in their overall stock worth.
But accompanying this boon—among others, was the increased attention drawn to their corporation: The never-ending probing eyes of the media, the IRS, and a few others.
And not also forgetting the decrease in their manpower, as several projects were being undertaken by their newly found corporation, without a corresponding amount of power input.
Hence the reason behind John's working overtime.
But right now, amidst the present chaos, John somehow found solace in the prospect of reuniting with his father.
No matter how one puts it, no matter what perspective it may be viewed from, John didn't think he was wrong to choose to work for another company over his father's. He plainly didn't see unceasingly walking in his father's shadow as ideal. One ought to own a slight sense of establishment and merit... in a way.
Besides all this, John also thought it was a good time to lax a bit... just before the storm that awaited him tomorrow.
With that decision made and a mindset, John headed in the direction of his bathroom, the letter still in his hands.
He thought about calling his father to notify him of the successful retrieval of his letter, but decided against it, as he thought it was also a good time to surprise him.
'Speaking of surprises, I should probably get him a gift or something.'
John thought as the seemingly endless streams of hot water flowed from his head and down to the tiled floor.
His taut muscles, particularly in his face, fingers and legs, loosened under the unending bombardment, and the exhilarating effect of the soothing liquid.
But however that may be, he still had to come up with something... and fast, because his next destination after his shower was his dad's house.
'I should probably get him one of those antic pens...
...Or a book.
...a wristwatch?
...a–um...A Necktie?... a bowtie?
...Both?
No those are too expensive.
So an antic pen it is. A dozen from each variety.' John came to a conclusion.
*
A few moments later, he was finally in his car and on his way to his father's house, with a poorly-wrapped present on his lap, a cup of coffee on his left hand, while the right did the driving.
It didn't take long to arrive at his destination. His father's house was situated a bit closer to his house, but not just close enough to go on foot.
Sipping the last drop of coffee, John exited his car and tossed the empty cup of coffee into the nearest garbage can, but tragically missing the shot as the cup grazed its side and rolled on the concrete pavement.
Sighing at his lack of skill, John walked to the front door of his dad's house and crouched in front of the entrance door to retrieve the house keys from under the door mat, only for his hand to graze the surface of the door, causing it to creak open.
'Huh?'
John stared at the half-opened door with a quizzical look, having the foggiest idea as to why his father would leave his front door open.
Not thinking much about it, John entered and locked the door behind him before making his way upstairs while calling for his father.
"Dad. Are you home?"
The entire house was dark as no lights were turned on, causing John to grope for a light switch to illuminate the living room, using it to pacify the unsettling feeling of quietness in the house.
"Is there anyone here?"
The more time John spent here, calling out, but getting no response made him extremely worried and uneasy. Why would his father leave his front door open and just up and leave? Did his father really not expect to see him today?
'He's probably in his study. I should check there at once.'
With that thought, John made his way further upstairs—to his father's study.
As he drew closer to the hallway where he thought his father's study room should be situated, he could glimpse the dim light seeping out to the hallway from the cleft beneath the door.
'Perhaps he's asleep...? Perhaps he had intentionally left the front door open, expecting to have seen me earlier today, only to fall asleep after growing weary of waiting for me?'
*
Having drawn close enough to the door, John twisted the door knob and slowly swung the door open, half-expecting to see his father, but to his dismay, the door opened to a room bereft of any soul.
But his disheartenment soon turned to amazement as he marvelled at the state of his father's study; it was vastly different from the way it had since the last time he had been here. Talking about the red floor tiling, gold-glittering glass chandelier, rows upon rows of bookshelves, and a few other books waiting to be shelved. And finally, the unreasonably large, black, round table in the middle of the room.
Scattered haphazardly on this table were several opened and unopened books, that would be more accurate if described as tomes.
Snapped back to reality from his reverie by the gnawing, unsettling feeling of his father's absence, John walked slowly around the room, still calling for his father—this time, louder than before.
But still, nothing happened.
Except for one thing....:
When John almost circled around to the other side of the enormous table, he almost did a full split as he slipped on what appeared to be a slimy liquid.
Regaining his stance and upon closer inspection, John discovered that he hadn't slipped on what he had assumed to be slime. So he reached out to the ground and touched the viscous liquid, only to feel a pang of fear as he noted the liquid to be blood.
He shifted his gaze to where he deduced to be the blood's origin point but couldn't see anything, partly because of the red floor tiling and also because of the several chairs positioned to flank the table from multiple sides.
Not being able to find what he thought would be best if didn't find, John circled round—to the other side of the table, only to be greeted by a sight that drained the entire colour off his face.
His father laid inert on the cold floor, with an empty gaze that bore through the ceiling, his hair drenched in his own blood—originating from the crack in his hind head.
"Da...Da-d. Da...d."
Choking on his own words as he valiantly forced his words through the various emotions coursing through his body, John witnessed his father's state, unable to accept the reality of his sudden, mysterious demise.
"..."
Suddenly, his father's eyes twitched, and his lips parted a bit.
Out of utter instinct and the intoxicating amount of adrenaline that was pumped into his system, John rushed to him and uttered with a shaky breath:
"W-who did this to you, Dad?"
"John?.... Is that ...you?" His father asked.
Whatever bludgeoning device used to leave John's father half to death had also impaired his vision by a considerable percentage.
"Yes, it's me. I'm here." John slid his arm under his father's neck and slowly pulled him close to rest on his lap.
"Just hang on, you are going to be alright. Let me just call an ambulance. You'll be fine."
As John dialled the emergency number, his father's hand went up and knocked the phone away from his trembling hands.
"I won't make it, John. Just stay here with me...
In silence."
John wasn't going to hear any of it, so he pressed on the matter of knowing his father's attacker(s).
He also tried making the 911 call again, only to find that for some ominous reason, his phone wasn't getting any signal.
John panicked.
"Please tell me: who did this? Did you see any of them?"
John believed that his father's attackers must have cut the phone wires to prevent any outgoing calls for help.
His father, sighing weakly, said: "I did see them, but was too weak and distracted to do anything.
They took the wristwatch I intended on gifting you today—being your 25th birthday."
John couldn't care less about any watch, his father was dying, and he couldn't call for help. He also couldn't go outside to call for help as his father's house was situated in an outlying area of the city, which barely had neighbours around.
He could only hold his father as he watched in pain, his life slowly fading away.
The sight and the feeling of helplessness were all too frightening for John.
But one thing that frightened John the most was his dad's calm resolution, even in his impending demise.
It scared John to see his father lose all the fight in him and have to listen to his placatory words regarding his soon-to-be death.
He was scared of being alone, hollow and utterly empty.
"..."
At this point, he lowered his head and let the tears flow unhindered from his eyes, while he made peace with his father.
Also, being at that level, John glimpsed a strange object from his peripheral vision, and out of instinct, he reached out to grab what looked to be a claw hammer, dripping with blood.
"Oh, God!" John practically threw the hammer away, having realised his mistake: His prints were now on what seemed to be the murder weapon.
But somehow, that just wasn't his priority at that moment.
So he turned to his father, only to have more tears flow from his eyes because his father was now truly dead.
"No...!!!"
It was just too hard to deal with this kind of emotion. And before John could get the chance to start on that, the wailing sirens of cop cars flooded his entire senses, his vision flooded with flashing red and blue lights.
Soon, he heard footsteps and a few whispering voices coming up from the hallway and towards the study room where he was in.
Why were the police here? He certainly didn't call any of them, as evidenced by the severed phone wire.
So why come here all of a sudden?
John's questions were abruptly answered when one of the policemen burst through the study room's door and spotted John holding his father, with the murder weapon a few centimetres away.
The policeman shifted his gaze from John's fearful and inquisitive eyes to the claw Hammer.
He then said, right before John could even form a coherent word:
"Mister, John Carter, you are under arrest for the murder of your father, Mister Bill Carter...
"What?! No! I didn't do it. I didn't kill my father...."
.....you have a right to an attorney, but would be granted one if you can't afford a private one."
As John struggled to break free from the policeman's grasp, another came in and joined the fray, pulling John away as a few medics came to examine his father's corpse.
"Please you have to believe me! I didn't kill my father! Someone else did, and they are trying very hard to make it seem like I did it. Please you have to believe me!"
John's pleas echoed indistinctively through the hallway as the two policemen led him into their car, all the while stressing the fact that John should remain silent so as not to utter anything that may be used against him in a court of law.
But John wouldn't hear any of it. The only thing that rang in his disarrayed mind was that he had been framed for killing his father. Even though he had a vague idea of the group that may have done it, his befuddlement borders around the reason why someone would want to hurt him like that.