What Happened to John Smith

DREAMS AND DISAPPOINTMENTS

The day began with a rooster crowing like it had a personal vendetta against sleep.

My name is Henry Wilson, and this was the last normal day of my life.

I was in my final year at *Hillridge International High School*. That’s what they call “senior high” in most foreign countries. Americans just call it high school. Same stress, different uniforms.

I had ironed my school uniform the night before—by “ironed,” I mean I laid it under my mattress overnight and prayed gravity would do the job. It didn’t. But who cares? Nobody’s judging your wrinkles in Hillridge unless you’re popular.

At breakfast, my mom was running around packing for a girls’ trip with her sister. She was flying out that afternoon for a week of relaxation, hot springs, and too many Instagram selfies. She kissed me on the head and said, “Don’t stress your dad while I’m gone.”

If only she knew what was coming.

The school gate looked like a train station that had lost all sense of direction. People were talking, shouting, running, slipping. I slipped once and used it to do a fake moonwalk just to save my dignity. Nobody noticed. Typical.

When I entered Class 12-B, the room was already buzzing. Posters were up. Balloons. The school counselor had left a box of stale muffins on the table as a “Career Day treat.” It was chaos, but beautiful chaos.

Mr. Simmons, our homeroom teacher, stood in front of the board like he was waiting to reveal national results. He tapped the board and grinned.

“Today, you speak your future into existence. Career Day isn’t just for laughs. You’re writing your destiny.”

Destiny? Big word for a guy wearing socks with holes.

People started sharing their career goals. The usual suspects came first.

“I want to be a fashion designer!” shouted Becca.

“Pilot!” yelled Jamal.

“Professional gamer,” mumbled Lucas, earning a few side-eyes.

Then my turn came.

I stood up, took a breath, and said clearly, “I want to be a criminal investigator.”

Silence.

Then someone coughed. Then laughter.

“What is this, a Netflix audition?” someone joked.

“You serious?” another laughed. “You tryna chase serial killers?”

“Yes,” I said. “Exactly that.”

Mr. Simmons raised an eyebrow. “Very... cinematic, Henry.”

“It’s not cinema. It’s what I want.”

He nodded. “Interesting. Good luck.”

I sat down, feeling the heat creep into my ears. But I didn’t care. It was my dream, and for once, I said it out loud.

---

Later that day, the clouds darkened. It was that perfect movie weather—gray skies, soft thunder, a promise of rain.

I arrived home to find my dad reading medical journals like they were love letters. He barely looked up.

“Good day, sir,” I said.

He nodded. “Welcome. School?”

“Fine. We had Career Day.”

He smiled faintly. “So you told them you're going to be a doctor?”

Here it comes.

“Actually, no,” I said.

He put the journal down.

“I said I want to be a criminal investigator.”

The pause was loud. Deafening.

“You said what?”

“I want to investigate crimes. Study criminology. Work on cold cases.”

His face hardened. “You want to waste your life chasing criminals instead of saving lives?”

“It’s not a waste. It’s what I want.”

“It’s foolish. This family doesn’t raise detectives. We raise doctors.”

“I’m not you,” I said.

That was a mistake.

“Get out,” he said.

I did.

---

That night, I stared at my ceiling. The rain had started to fall—soft and rhythmic, like the ticking of a clock counting down to something.

I whispered, “I’m going to prove him wrong.”

But I never got the chance.

Two days later, I came home from school early. I had printed brochures for forensic science programs, hoping to change his mind with facts. I opened the door.

And froze.

The house was too quiet. Unnaturally quiet.

There was blood on the floor.

I followed the trail.

And found him.

My father.

Face down.

Slaughtered.

Gone.

No sign of forced entry. No weapon in sight. Just blood. Just death.

The police called it a robbery.

I called it murder.