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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SkittleSac on 2024-10-23 13:28:07+00:00.

He died a little over a year ago when a blood clot made its way from his leg up to his heart. I was working overseas in the military at the time, but I was still able to make it to his funeral. My dad was a very loved man by more than just our family, and I can’t even count the number of times I said “thank you for coming” or “yeah it doesn’t even feel real.” The thing is, it really didn’t. It still doesn’t. 

I remember getting the call from my mom when it happened, and even the way she broke the news to me made me feel like she didn’t even think it actually happened. She just spoke to me in the same tone she uses when we call to talk about our days. Having been overseas for about two years at this point, I usually tried to call her or my dad at least once a week if I could, but I found it to be easier to call my mom because she had a more consistent schedule. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to my dad, I just didn’t know when I’d be able to, so I’d usually just settle with a text from time to time. Hell, the last time I spoke to him over the phone was on father’s day, but the conversation slowly went from “happy father’s day” to him complaining about how much he works.

“It just feels like I never have free time anymore”

“Yeah, I feel that” 

I really didn’t. Ever since I joined, I had more free time on my hands than I knew what to do with, but up until then I was in the same boat. I’ve been working since I was 13, and played sports in college while also having a job to pay tuition, and even after college I worked 2 jobs just to pay bills. That’s part of the reason why I joined, but now it almost made me feel guilty knowing that I had all this free time while he had to continue working 2 jobs into his mid-50s just to hope for a retirement.

“When are you coming home?”

“I’m hoping in September if things go well on my end.”

“That’ll be nice. I’m proud of you son. I miss you. Gotta go, this order’s finally ready. Love you.”

“Love you too dad.”

Those were the last words we ever said to each other. At least, while he was alive.

The night before he died, I called my mom to check in and see how she was doing and get my weekly update on what’s going on back home.

“Your dad tripped up the stairs on his way in last night. They just got done redoing the porch and one of the steps is a little taller than the other ones, and he isn’t quite used to it yet. He’s been sleeping on the chair in the living room because it hurts too much for him to go upstairs. You should call him, I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.”

“I’ll call him tomorrow, I’m getting ready to go out to a friend’s house for a little get-together.”

“Okay, be safe. Love you.”

“I will. Love you too.”

The next morning I was in the gym when I got a text from my mom saying, “Are you busy?”

This is code for “can I call you” which is normally fine, but it was only 6am where she is, and I usually don’t call her until later at night because of the time difference.

I told her I was busy, but I’d call her in a little bit. I’m not sure if it was divine intervention or what, but after I was done warming up, every machine that I wanted to use was taken, so I gave her a call back to see what was going on. Like I said before, the way she was talking to me made it seem like he took a trip to the hospital and she was on her way to pick him up to go home, but that wasn’t the case at all.

“But I’m coming home in September” I said, trying to hide the shakiness in my voice.

“I know, I’m sorry. We were really looking forward to seeing you too.”

The next several minutes were spent by me bawling my eyes out on the floor of the warmup room in the gym. Thankfully, only one other person was there to see it.

After regaining my composure, I made some phone calls and got on a plane to come home 3 months early. Luckily, being in the military allowed me to get a last minute plane ticket for free due to my circumstances, which I’m forever grateful for.

It was weird though. The whole time I was home, I felt like I was playing pretend. Like I was acting the part of a kid who lost his dad way before he expected to. I was sad, yes, but even when I was at his funeral I never actually cried or really showed any emotion. I just stood there while countless people came in and told me they were sorry for my loss or told me their favorite memories of him.

The following week was spent by me going out and catching up with old friends that I hadn’t seen since I left, and they all said the same things I had already heard hundreds of times, which just added to me feeling like I should feel worse about the whole thing.

When my time was up, I flew back to Europe and went back to work and it was almost like it never even happened. A few months went by and I wound up back in the states for a class, and that’s when they started.

Now, I’ve had problems with sleeping my whole life. I dealt with night terrors fairly consistently, with the occasional sleep paralysis episode, but I’d never talk in my sleep or sleepwalk. I wouldn’t even remember most of my dreams after a few hours usually.

The first time I saw him, I was standing in the middle of a store picking up snacks for work when he walked through the front door, walked up to me, hugged me and said “It’ll be alright son. I love you and I miss you.”

The timing on it was insane, because I had just recently gotten ghosted by “the one” and I was starting to spiral. I just woke up in tears but I actually felt like he hugged me and I genuinely felt comforted.

Anyway, the next one I remember was a couple weeks later. I was sitting in my living room, talking to my mom about something she heard on the news and asked if I knew anything about it. I told her no and even if I did, I wouldn’t be able to talk about it. Then, out of nowhere, my dad walked in the front door and just sat down in the chair beside me.

“D-dad…?”

“Hey son, how’ve you been?”

“Aren’t you… Didn’t you… How are you here?”

“Oh, they found this new procedure that brought me back to life. Pretty cool huh”

“Yeah, but are you actually-”

“Here? Yes.” 

He loved finishing my sentences, but I found it annoying.

We ended up talking about how work was going, what I’ve been up to and how I had been feeling for the past few months. I told him work was okay, told him about my new gym routine and that I missed him.

“It’s okay son, I’m still here.” and he got up and hugged me and I once again woke up in tears, this time hugging a pillow.

Like I said, I usually don’t sleep talk, and whenever I do communicate in my dreams, it feels the same as when I try punching someone in a dream - like I’m in a straight jacket and have zero arm strength. I don’t even usually hear what other people say, I just understand them because it’s a dream or whatever. But this conversation I had with my dad felt the exact same as if he and I were actually talking to each other. We both made clear, coherent sentences. I could see the different expressions on his face and he was even wearing the same Cubs hat he always wore to cover up his bald spot. It was by far the most realistic dream I had ever had, which is what made me so confused when I woke up.

A few more weeks passed, and during that time I was hoping he’d appear in my dreams again, but he never did. Eventually I forgot about it ever happening, and that’s when he showed up again.

But this time it was different.

My dad and I used to work at the same restaurant when I was in school and that’s where we were. It was a typical busy night which meant that he was in an irritable mood as the orders just kept coming back one after another, seemingly endlessly. I had just started working as a prep cook, and he was the main cook which meant he needed me to make sure the plates were ready to go by the time the food was ready so he could get it out to the customers, but I was falling behind.

“SkittleSac, hurry the fuck up!”

This caught me off guard because he didn’t ever talk to me like that. Not even when he was really pissed off.

“I’m trying dad”

“Well fuckin try harder. You’re holding up the line.”

and then, when I went to move a plate from one counter to another, we ran into each other and I dropped the plate on his foot.

“AH, WHAT THE FUCK”

And he threw a right hook so hard I woke up jumping out of my bed, followed by tears.

That was probably one of the scariest dreams I’ve ever had. Not because some monster was chasing me with a knife or a demon was squatting in the corner of my room while I couldn’t move, but because everything about that dream felt real. The restaurant was laid out the exact same way as I remembered, even down to the plates and how I arranged the topping bins. My dad was in his typical work attire and even some of my old co-workers were there as well. I could smell the food and hear the sound of fried food gurgling in oil and burgers sizzling on the grill. It was like I was actually there, but I have never had an interaction with my dad like that. Sure, sometimes when it was busy he’d start cussing up a storm “damn this, and fuck that” but it never got violent, let alone against me. I was usually the one to calm him down and he told me several times that if I wasn’t there, he wasn’t sure how he would’ve gotten through the night, even if I was the one holding us up while I learned the new position.

I actually stayed up in bed the next night wondering if I was just digging up some repressed memories or feelings, but I cou…

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