I’m sure you can understand my excitement when I received confirmation from the warden that I would be allowed to visit him. My heart was racing as I drove down the long, winding road leading to the prison. I had been waiting for this day for what seemed like an eternity. But as I pulled into the parking lot, my excitement turned to dread.
The prison was old and rundown, with tall walls that towered over me like a fortress. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and concrete, and the sound of chains and footsteps echoed through the corridors.
I made my way to the visitor’s area, where I was patted down and searched before being allowed to enter. The room was small and cramped, with a single table and two chairs. And there he was, sitting on the other side of the table, staring at me with dark, cold eyes.
We talked for a few minutes, catching up on old times. But there was something about him that made my skin crawl. His voice was devoid of emotion, and his words were empty and hollow.
As we sat there in silence, a sudden gust of wind rattled the windows, sending shivers down my spine. And then I saw it. A small figure, a child, hovering outside the window.
My son.
I jumped up from my chair, calling out to him, but he didn’t respond. He just stared at me with those same dark, cold eyes. And then he vanished into thin air, leaving me alone with my son’s killer.
I ran out of the visitor’s room, screaming in terror. But as I looked back, I saw something that made my blood run cold. His eyes were no longer dark and empty. They were now filled with the same light I remembered from my son.
It had been almost five years since I lost my son to a mass shooting, but it turns out he had never really left me. And neither had his killer.
