I didn’t fight.
They dragged me backward across the compound yard, boots scraping dirt, my gaze locked on my father’s face the entire time.
He watched me go—cigarette back between his lips, smoke curling like a noose.
No remorse.
No recognition.
Just cold, amused detachment.
I kept staring, willing this to be a nightmare, willing him to call out, to stop them, to show one flicker of the man he used to be.
He didn’t.
My father’s face stayed fixed in that same cold, detached mask as I was dragged away, as if nothing about what had just been said—or done—mattered to him.
Even as the distance stretched between us, I refused to look away.
I kept staring.
Burning the image into my mind.
Holding onto the last clear view of him, as though if I stared long enough, hard enough, he would change his mind.
Move.
Do something.
Anything.
Prove that this was some cruel illusion—something born from blood loss, shock, or a mind that had finally snapped under pressure.
My breath hitched.
My hands trembled where they hung uselessly at my sides.
No.
No, this couldn’t be real.
I forced my focus inward, desperate for anything to ground me.
My fingers moved instinctively.
I dug my nails into the inside of my arm—hard.
Pain exploded instantly.
A strangled breath slipped from my lips.
I did it again.
Harder.
The sting deepened, blooming across my skin, anchoring me painfully to the present.
This was real.
