That day my diary entry read, "Dad's gone." I remember walking around in a daze, achieving nothing constructive. People were about at all times, my uncles, a reporter, a blur of humans. A "Damn the dam" T-shirt. Nothing.

The light danced off the walls. It was a beautiful day outside. The voices sharpened my headache. The pang in my chest. I tried not to think, the tightening of my stomach if I did, its clutch like steel, unable to let go. I was terrified. The walls spun as I moved. Images of my dad, beaten and scared, massacred my thoughts. The tears did not come. I breathed. And again.

Dinner. A hotel, a gala dinner for a school festival. Dad was supposed to be there. He had done nothing but he was not there. Home. Sleep. Nothing was real. It was disjointed. Not happening. Perhaps I dreamt. It wasn't important.

He was released. A teacher hugged me. I'll never forget.

He scares me sometimes. He changed. It will never be the same. At night the tears that escaped me then, return to lull me to my dreams.

Life continues, time passes, memories stay to haunt him. To haunt me. Few can understand what has happened to him. I can't. He did nothing; nothing can compensate the damage that remains, the memories terrifying us still.