I can still hear the engine & see the beaming headlights through my bedroom window. That of the midnight chauffer of the fallen prince.
With a stumble and stagger, the hopeless prince would
just make it to his castle gates. After a minute of stillness, his key
scratching at the lock amongst the shadows, slicing at the pristine silence
like a sword.
The harsh sound of it falling multiple times to the
floor. The stranger, not the man I love and call dad, clambering around trying
to find it like a clumsy court jester.
Muttering incoherent gibberish to himself.
10-year-old me, going down to let him in. Seeing him
sitting on the cold, wet concrete, with a glazed smile and another bleeding
wound upon his face.
The shell of the man he can be amongst the glimmers of
sobriety.
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