'Do you see his face?' Harry – our leader – pushed his head an inch from mine. 'Look at it,' he snarled, 'because you're gonna remember it for the rest of your life.'
I turned away from him and shivered. Harry had always given me the creeps. I never knew why, he was just one of those people who you never wanted to disappoint. He had become leader just before I joined the gang.
Harry was 18 and all muscle and beef. His was built like a brick shit-house and he smelt like one too. To sum him up, Harry was a hairy, smelly, hunk of a man who had never grown out of a teenage obsession with violence.
I looked at the man that Harry was pointing to. To anyone else, he would have seemed ordinary, no one special. But to me he was different. He looked like me, and the more I looked, the more I realised that I was his mirror image. My stomach jolted, but I made sure that nothing showed on my face.
Oh shit, I thought, I'm about to kill my father.
Harry nudged me with his arm, showed me his glinting teeth and handed me a lethal looking knife.
'You ready?'
Wordlessly, I nodded. I had to do this. I had no choice. Silently, I replayed his words in my head:
'Do you see his face? Look at it, because you're gonna remember it for the rest of your life.'
I knew that he was right. The first man that I would kill would be my father. I looked down at my fist clutching the knife. Concentrate, I told myself, focus on the knife. Focus on the theory – you know what to do. I didn't want to think about what it would feel like – his flesh carving under my hand, his gasping last breaths, his blood spilling onto the pavement.
I didn't want to think about that.
So instead, I stepped out onto the pavement and went to meet my father.
The night went smoothly. He didn't suspect a thing, which was exactly what I had planned. See, I had called him a few days back and asked him if he wanted to meet me.
It had been 2 years since I had seen Dad. He didn't look any different, but there was something in his eyes that wasn't there before. I could tell that he was still on the drink, but I think that it was for a different reason.
Something inside told me that he was drinking to forget me. Did that mean that he was over Mum? I doubt it. Did that mean that my disappearance actually meant something to him? Maybe. Deep down, I really hope so.
The moment he saw me step onto the pavement, his face lit up with joy.
It was then that I knew that I couldn't do it.
I had known from the start that what I had set out to do would be hard. Not physically – I had been prepared for that. It was what they didn't teach me, what I didn't know, that scared me.
They never said anything about this feeling I have now. My stomach is leaping all over the place, and I can feel my palm sweating on the handle of the knife. I can hear my breath coming in short grunts, and I can see my hands shaking. I look down at my hands, my shaking hands. I'm shaking. I can't believe it. Is it because I'm nervous? Maybe I am. No, that's a lie. I am nervous, but it's more.
It's fear. I'm scared of what I'm about to do. I know that I can't go back, that what I'm about to do is irreversible.
This is a way to get back at my father, but was that what I really want?
I don't know anymore. Everything is a jumble in my head; I can't think straight and I can't seem to even see straight. I can see Dad shouting and running towards me. I feel myself drop the knife as my knees thud onto the pavement.
That's funny, I think, why am I on the ground? Then I can feel myself pitching forwards and landing painfully on my face. I can feel Dad's hands pulling at me, turning me over, and checking me for damage.
My face is wet. I don't know why. I look up at Dad and stare into his eyes. I think that he's a bit unnerved at first. But I haven't seen him for 2 years – 2 whole years – and it's not until now that I realise how much I need him.
I watch as his tears fall onto my face as he holds me. I feel his tears mingle with mine as they run down my cheeks. I remember the last time that I cried. It seems so long ago, but it was for my father then too.
It's only now that I realise that Dad's hand is clutched to my chest. I try to look down, because suddenly it seems very important that I see. I'm starting to feel some pain and I can hear my breath coming in gasps and my mind starting to lose its calm. I start to panic – I want to look at my chest. But Dad won't let me.
I move my head, but Dad grabs it in both of his hands and pushes me back to the ground. The pain is getting worse and I can't speak. I try to ask what's wrong, because I can see the fear in Dad's eyes.
My cheeks feel very wet as Dad puts his hands back onto my chest. I wonder why – was his hands sweating that much? But then I realise; and I know.
My cheeks are smeared with my blood. I can see my face reflected in my own blood on the floor. But how could that have happened? It all becomes too much and I rest my head back. I can't take it, it's all getting to complex for me to handle.
There's a ringing in my ears that wasn't there before. I can feel my strength leaving me as my arms flop down by my sides. I think Dad feels it too, as suddenly his face reappears above mine.
I can see his mouth forming words, but I can't hear him because of this ringing. I close my eyes to try to clear my head, and I can abruptly feel Dad's hands on my face again. I think he thinks that it's all over. That I'm about to die.
Maybe I am. I don't know. I can't think straight anymore, and this is kind of a funny way to die – in my father's arms. It should have been the other way around. I shouldn't be dying; not here, not now.
Something tells me that I should be panicking, that I should be fighting. But suddenly I can't see the point anymore. I've lost complete control of my body and it all seems so peaceful. Just me and Dad. Kinda like the old days.
I smile. I feel Dad's breath on my face as I close my eyes. This is the way I want it to end, for my life to finish. I can't believe that I've accepted this. Deep down, some part of me is wondering why I'm dying when I'm only 16. Surely it shouldn't have been this way. I wonder briefly why there's no one else here.
But there is. My conscious surges again as I remember Harry in the bush.
Was it him who did this to me?
I can't remember. I can't remember anything now; I can't see anything. I have to rely on feel, but even that is fading now.
It's dark and cold. I'm starting to feel scared, but then I feel Dad's arms around me and his breath on my face and I know that it's okay.
I know that it's all okay.
