Writing Prompt: a storm, the old oak tree, a scar.
The storm picked up on his walk home, creating strong winds that tore leaves from branches and pelted raindrops into his skin.
It was like a sheet of water clouding his vision by the time he walked up to the gravel driveway of his house. He shook his jacket and brushed off his jeans. His mother wouldn’t be too happy with the mud dripping off his clothes onto, what he assumed to be, a freshly mopped floor.
The old oak tree that sat straight out from the front door came up on his right. He leaned on the rough bark and rubbed water from his eyes, slicking his hair back after.
One little jog and he’d be inside and warm, but his eyes drifted to the right of the door. A black aura swirled like a slow tornado, eventually forming into a lanky figure with long, pointy fingers.
His hand snapped to his face, tracing the scar that ran parallel to his hairline—a small ridge just before his hairline and down to his ear. He had seen the foggy figure before and he was left his scar.
The figure turned to him and its face lifted in a smoky smile before it disappeared in another dingy swirl of black.
His mother once told him of the story behind his scar, but it came out disjointed and mumbled as its precursor was a bottle of wine. She had never cleared it up, either, dismissing the subject as soon as he’d bring it up.
He pushed off the tree, sprinting up the front steps. She would have to tell him now. But before he could grab the handle, the door jolted open.
His mother stood in the doorway with a loving smile on her face and smoky figure over her shoulder. She followed her son’s eyes behind her and grabbed his hand.
“We need to talk,” she glanced to the figure again and a slight grimace rose to her face, “about your father.”