Given the fragile and emotional child that my father had always been, he was both surprised and a little frightened by his reaction to the news of his fathers' suicide. He knew he should have fallen apart and cried until there were no more tears in his body, but he didn't. He knew he should have blamed society, alcohol or God for his loss, but no. He knew everyone expected him to lose his grip on reality and wander off to some imaginary place where he could heal his wounds, but it never happened.
A week later. He felt: nothing. He did: nothing. Instead he found himself in an emotional no mans land. It was as if the whole world promptly had stopped turning, and a strange sense of serenity came over him. If he hadn't been so numbed by the surrealism of the whole situation, he would probably have felt guilty over being so calm. Later on he most definitely did, but for the moment he could only accept that he saw clarity like never before. Over night, he suddenly knew exactly what he needed to do, and how he had to shape the rest of life. All doors were opened, the road ahead was clear.
He had to leave, he had to go somewhere, anywhere. Away from it all.