When I was 23, my father died. I would have preferred to have nothing to do with his demise. We hadn’t spoken since I left when I was 18, and with good reason. However, he had, for some unfathomable reason, left everything to me. The house where I’d grown up. His small savings account. A mess of different collectables.
I slept poorly, so I was awake before sunrise. I had hoped that watching the sunrise would make me feel better. The colors were so beautiful. But, because of me, many people weren’t alive to enjoy the sunrise. Watching something that made me happy felt wrong.
I woke slowly, climbing, with effort, back to consciousness. Something was wrong. I wasn’t sure what, but it was very, very wrong. And it was inside my head. I opened my eyes.