What started in Paris

Chapter 14

Chapter fourteen

I'm not exactly sure what I expected this moment to be, to finally meet the man who caused my existence. As a child I liked to dream that he was a king or an army officer who would come and take us away to exciting new places. Away from those hallowed halls. But he never came and as I grew older I hated him for that. But one constant veritable in those childhood imagery's was that he was always strong, solid.

But the man in the hospital bed before me looked anything but. His skin was more iridescent than mine, showing deep blue and purple veins. He had bruises along his shark cheekbones, deep hollows in his cheeks. His think lips were shaped and cracked, the wires hooked up to him making me feel sick.

I turned my head to the side, taking a deep breath and smelling the acidic smell of sickness, of looming death. Adams warm hand touched my side, guiding me forward. Forcing open my eyes I saw my father's brown eyes staring sleepily back, the armed black clad man looming in the corner like a midnight watchman, his dark eyes looking over every inch of us.

    "Day." My father said my name, not in question, not in beckoning, just as a statement and I furrowed my eyebrows, staring blankly back at him.

There where papers stacked around the room, manila envelopes pilled over the grey rolling table. It was a claustrophobic mess.

       "Come here, I have something for you." My father says, his voice low but firm, emotionless.

I walk forward, biting the inside of my cheek in irritation. I'm being immature about it but I honestly expected something a bit more...caring from him. But looking down at him, seeing his deft hands move with precision for a large folder, the way he seemed to calculate everything I could final see how wrong I was as a child. How could I have ever imagined that a man who would leave his pregnant girlfriend and child without a trace, without support, could ever be good? No, he was as cruel as I should have guessed.

   I look over at Adam, seeing him glaring at my  father and feel a bit of relief knowing I wasn't the only one bothered. Looking back at my father I could see the scars on his wrists and the tattoos stained and across his pale skin; a strange scar in  deliberate lines on his bicep.

 I stand a little closer, taking the heavy folder he gives me.

      "What is this, Sir?" I ask, my voice cold.

        "This is why I had you brought here, why I assigned that job to one of the brightest assigns we have, everything in this folder is what you need to know about my five year old son. He's been taken."