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A home for David It was a chilly Tuesday evening, though that was to be expected on an early January day. The wind nipped crazily at me, David Walker, as if it was a hungry dog and I was a chubby filet mignon begging to be eaten as I trudged home. You see, I am a bus rider because of my father’s own laziness to refuse to pick up his own son. The bus brings me close to where I live, but the bus stop is still a quarter of a mile distance away from the place I stay. I also know for a fact that my dad past by here not even five minutes ago in the old, beat up station wagon on his way home from work. Did he even think about waiting for me? No, of course not, that would be too considerate of him and because of that I’m going to walk a quarter of a mile home from the bus stop in this weather. Though that would mean I would not have to see the devil that is my father for at least another good half-hour before I got home. So all in all walking home in this weather would not be hal
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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