You Can Never Go Home Again

Pop had two settings—gentle and high-heat. A beacon of patience until pushed too far, the former boxing champ inside my mild-mannered father could emerge without warning. I feared facing the fighter inside if I lost Pop’s dog.

  When first I arrived at my father’s doorstep two days ago, Pop didn’t ask any questions. Never loquacious, this time his silence echoed the emptiness in my soul. I had failed—at life, at love, at everything—and had decided to leave the city and return to my childhood home, where I had felt safest.

Eventually, words began to drop out of Pop’s mouth, such as, “Morning,” and “G’night.”

Going Home by D. Marie Prokop, Hair Raising Tales of Horror

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