My old man was a mean drunk. More often than not he’d come home wasted and take out his frustrations and me and my mom. One day he was in a particular foul mood, and as he was about to take a swing at me, my mom stepped between us.
His face turned red with anger like I had never seen before, as the doorbell rang. I think I was the only one who heard it. When no one answered it, whoever was standing outside our door pounded on it with such force it nearly flew off its hinges.
This got my dad’s attention. Grabbing a baseball bat on his way to the door, he swung it open getting ready to strike the visitor, my mom covered my eyes. Slowly her hand dropped and I saw my dad was frozen in place. When I looked up, I understood why. At the door was a man in an impeccable dark blue suit, not a single stain or wrinkle, a fancy handkerchief tucked in his breast pocket and his tie perfectly straight, and.. he did not have a face.
The faceless man grabbed the bat from my father’s hands and folded it into a somewhat pretzel like shape. My dad dropped to his knees in disbelief, the faceless man then grabbed onto his head with a single hand, and without any effort whatsoever he crushed my dad’s head into a mess of blood and bones.
Very casually he took out the handkerchief and cleaned my dad’s blood, brains and bone fragments from his hand, after which he took out a small notebook and an expensive looking fountain pen, and he crossed something out. He then casually strolled out the door, leaving my mom and I with utter shock and disbelief.
I am not proud to admit this, but I take after my old man. Because of my old man, perhaps. And while he had a family, all I have is a lousy security job and a string of failed relationships due to my drinking and anger issues. As I am making the final rounds making sure all the doors and windows are locked I enter the stairwell and when I lock the door, I hear a gentle knocking. Looking through the peephole I see a man in an impeccable dark blue suit, not a single stain or wrinkle, a fancy handkerchief tucked in his breast pocket and his tie perfectly straight, and.. he does not have a face.
I run down the stairs trying all the doors along the way, all of them locked, suddenly my keys open no doors. I hear a loud bang and assume the faceless man has kicked down the door. I hear him casually walking down the stairs, unlike me he seems to be in no hurry.
I reach the very bottom of the stairs and try to break down the door of reinforced steel, fully knowing just how pointless it is. Behind me I hear the soft footsteps approaching. I crawl into the corner as the faceless man reaches out to place his hand on my head, like he did to my father’s all those years ago.
In my desperation I beg him to spare me, promise to stop drinking, go to therapy, make amends to the people I have hurt, all while sobbing. To my shock, it actually seems to work. He puts his hand down his pocket instead, and takes out his little notebook and fancy fountain pen I know all too well, and writes something.
He then shows me my name in the book with a question mark behind it. And with that he casually walks out the door, just like he did so many years ago. That question mark was a message, a warning, that I have taken to heart. He has given me a second chance, to make good on my promises to him. I know he’s still out there, observing me, and I know I won’t get a third chance.