Wolf Penn
Five days later we were standing barefoot listening to the waves
hitting the shore. I enjoyed every uncontrollable wave that came at us,
every dash of wind that hit my and Leyla’s face. Most of all, I enjoyed
her smile. She was young, but she knew pain.
“Can I sing for you, daddy?” she asked me.
“Of course.”
“What can I sing?”
“Whatever you want, sweetie. Whatever you want.”
Everything became irrelevant in front of that one simple word
on a letter from the Department of Angels: Irregularity. I was being
summoned. I had to come to the Ministry of Protection and speak to
my angel. I checked the date. It was sent over a week ago. Shit . Leyla
forgot to tell me that we had gotten mail. I started sweating. I moved
as fast as I could. I packed all the necessities; there was no time to be
thorough. Some pictures, little bit of clothes.
“Leyla!” I screamed.
I searched through all my drawers. I found my birth certificate.
Burned it. Family tree documentation? Burned that too. No traces. I
ran into the garage and took my canister of gasoline. I started pouring
it around the house.
“Daddy?”
Hearing her voice would always make me smile. My ten-year-old
daughter.
“Do you remember the drill, sweetie?” I asked her.
“Yeah,” she replied, still sleepy. It was 10 in the evening, past her
bedtime. She held on to her teddy bear, Mr. Snuggles, she named him.
“Well, sweetie, you have to get your stuff now. Just like we practiced.”
She simply nodded and went to her room. She knew what to do.
I kept on packing. Flashlight, batteries, canned food. Who knows how
long will we be out there. I checked the drawer under my business
desk. My berretta was there. I packed it with the other stuff. As I was
hurrying to get everything ready and spread gasoline around the
house, I heard the doorbell. It was long past curfew. For a moment
there, I stopped breathing. It wasn’t until the third or fourth ring that
Montage, May 2017 7