Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-33224589-20171004052248

My father disappeared when I was eleven years old.

No note, no phone call to explain, nothing at all. I was devastated, of course, as any child would be at the sudden leave of their father. I remember staying up all night for over a week staring out my window, expecting to see him out there.

He never showed up out there.

My mother, contrary to myself, seemed surprisingly unfazed by his sudden absence. She never called the police, never called his family to ask, never even called him.

All I remember her doing was sitting at the kitchen table with a cigarette dangled lazily between her fingers as she stared at the door to the attic.

Of course, I thought nothing of it and assumed she was just grieving and spacing out.

Until two weeks after.

My radios batteries had died, and I needed to go to the attic to grab the new ones. I was normally not allowed to go up there under any circumstances, but since I was home alone I thought it would be fine.

As soon as I had thrown the heavy door open, an unpleasant smell greeted my nostrils and it made me gag. The stairs creaked under my feet as I stumbled up them, using a hand to cover my nose so I couldn't take in that horrendous stench.

I reached the top of the steps and immediately noticed a large, black tarp hanging from the rafters amidst all the junk piled everywhere. It was in the middle of the room and the smell seemed to be coming from behind it.

Being the naturally curious young child I was, I approached the tarp with an air of hesitation, but also excitement. Was there a monster back there? And if so, could it be my pet?

I reached the tarp and the smell was so unbearable I thought I would faint. My eyes were watery as I reached out a small, shaking hand to pull the large sheet back.

Behind it was my father.

He was hanging from a couple large hooks crudely stabbed into the ceiling were connected to and hoisting up both his arms and the nape of his neck. He was pale but also with a reddish tint to his skin.

A large part of his thigh was carved out.

I recalled what my mother said was in the oven for supper that night. She told me right before she left. Mystery meatloaf was on the menu.

And I now knew what was mystery ingredient was.

I heard the door slam downstairs and the loud jangle of my mother's jewelry accompany her voice as she called out for me.

"Dinnertime!" 