Fiction: Group 4
That winter morning I wake to see my father standing outside our house dressed in his crisp
uniform, but he doesn’t wear it with honor or pride, he nearly looks disgusted as he swings a large gun over
his back. Clipped to his belt, is a smaller gun, which nestles in a holster, a baton and a pair of numb chucks.
He is dressed with such barbarity.
“Why do you have so many weapons?”
He doesn’t realise I followed him outside, “Catia… I need you to go to your grandfather’s tobacco
shop, I need you to go to the basement.”
“Why?” his tone scares me.
“We need to make some arrests, it may go out of hand and I need to know that you’re safe.” His
voice is firm yet somewhat uneasy.
“You promised you wouldn’t hurt anyone,” he catches my gaze drifting to the rifle, resting on his
back.
“I need you to stay in the basement, until everything is quiet and you are sure there is no one
outside.” He says, looking directly in my eyes, “Catia, I need you to do this… Go, now.”
I nod idly; he then kisses my forehead and sets off. I feel paralysed, standing in my nightgown, my
feet bare, cold against the cobbles. My conscience automatically urges me to go inside, to get shoes, my
heart warns me that Tomás is in danger, that I should bring him with me to the tobacco shop. But my mind
is ringing with my father’s orders: Go, now.
And I run: my chest tight, my lungs burning.
And I pray: that my father will keep his promise, that Tomás is safe.
And in the darkness of the basement one thought flickers:
I should have let him go.
