Hunting the Truth

I don’t know why the image of my father standing in a graveyard unsettled me so much. Perhaps it was less the graveyard, and more that he was working on a car while in a graveyard. There was an old, beaten up vehicle in the background, and my father held a wrench in one of his hands. I felt so bothered by the picture that I had to leave the workshop immediately, spending the day around town until my brake and clutch repairs were finished. Once they were done, I opened up the next sealed letter, telling me which auto workshop to go to and what service to get there.

Turns out, I’m headed to Queensland. There’s a small town called Toowoomba where I am to get tyre repairs, regardless of what state my tyres are in. All I can say is I hope they can do a decent tyre repair in the Toowoomba area, because my tyres are quite beaten up after driving from Melbourne to Adelaide, then to Sydney, and now to Brisbane. I’m honestly surprised they haven’t burst yet.

I don’t really know what to expect from this next auto shop. I know that my father lived in Queensland for many years before he finally returned to Victoria, where he began a new life in the highest parts of society and had me. I never knew my mother, so it was just dad and me, living in that bat-infested castle. Scary place, but I suppose it was home.

Hopefully, the mechanics near Toowoomba can paint a clearer picture of what my dad was before becoming a rich upper-class man. It’s strange, knowing I actually come from the working class. I’d always thought I was so far above them, but it turns out that the blood running through me is the same as theirs. I guess I feel bad about looking down on them now.

For some reason, my father decided to hide this life from me. Only now, after his death, does he want me to find the truth. Alright, dad, I guess I’ll play your game. And then I’ll have billions of dollars, which will be nice.

– Will Hunter

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