The nurse puts a hand on my shoulder. "Let’s get you back into bed,
I know it’s him, even although his face has been beaten to a pulp: his blood staining the fireside rug my mum was so fond of.
Even in death, my dad has a presence. He fills a room with the sheer weight of his personality.
Discarded nearby is the baseball bat they used on him. It’s covered in blood and something sticky and dark brown, resembling raw mince.