Skeletons

The smell of the hospital hit me the moment I walked in. The sharp scent of disinfectant hung heavy in the air, and the constant movement of nurses made me hesitate. Was I in the wrong place?

I knew, intellectually, that I wasnt. I was following my siblings, walking behind my mum and stepfather. But my dad didnt belong here. He belonged at work, dressed in his uniform, working at the juvenile detention center. He loved that job. It made him feel important. The uniform made him feel important.

So why was he here?

It had been a couple of years since I had last seen him. For some reason, he had stopped our fortnightly visits, and I had just accepted it. My older brother, three years ahead of me, still saw him. He had a motorbike and would ride over regularly. At one point, he even lived with Dad until Mum put a stop to it she said my brother wasnt being properly fed or looked after. To be fair, though, my brother was nearly 21.

I dont remember much about that hospital visit, only that we were told it was best if we didnt see him”he didn't look like Dad." Not long after, they told us he had passed away. I remember saying I wanted to see him, but by then, it was too late. We were taken home.

The months that followed were a blur of devastation and loneliness. I dont remember any hugs or words of comfort from Mum or my stepfather. Just an overwhelming sadness that would hit me in waves. I spent hours, days even, wandering the woods and fields alone. That's where I found peace. That's where I cried.

Later, I learned that my dad had still been working right up until his collapse. He was found unconscious at home. It didnt make sense how could someone be so ill and yet still go to work? Someone must have noticed. His colleagues? His superiors? My stepfather, who was working at the same detention center, sometimes even on the same shifts?

But no one said a word.

His death certificate listed tuberculosis, pneumonia, and leukemia. Illnesses that take months to progress, with symptoms that are impossible to ignore, constant coughing, coughing up blood, chest pain, dizziness, difficulty breathing, and drastic weight loss. He must have been suffering. He must have been terrified.

If Dad was that sick, I know he wouldn't have been taking care of himself. His hygiene was never a priority, and without someone looking after him, it would have been obvious dirty clothes, an unkempt appearance, disoriented speech. Yet no one raised the alarm.

When we cleared out his house, the filth was overwhelming. Papers covered in incoherent ramblings were strewn everywhere. He had been hallucinating for months. He had been alone in that nightmare, lost in his own mind. My stepfather told us to throw everything away, including his writings. At the time, I thought he knew best. Now, I know better.

The detention center failed him. My family failed him. I believe there was a cover-up of his condition, of his suffering, of the circumstances surrounding his death. The Home Office refuses to investigate, citing lost evidence, deceased witnesses, and a lack of public interest.

My brother carried his own scars from that place, but he never spoke about them. Like Dad, he died at 46.

The same age. Thirty years later.

Too many secrets. Too many skeletons.

And no one wants to talk.