His birth coincided with one of his father's hiccups. The man had been drunk as usual. But for that fragment of the second, he had to lose all his senses. He didn't see the baby been reaped out, even though he was standing right in front. So, he never believed that the child was born at all. He accepted his son as a hallucination.

"You're my hangover", he'd say "But I love my imaginary characters."

"But I'm real", his son would revolt

"Oh! Don'cha worry about that. I'm imaginary myself. My birth coincided with one of my father's hiccup. You'd learn one day, that the hiccup negates reality. And with every hiccup we become more and more imaginary."

Saying this his father disappeared into the thin air.

Labels: fiction, flash fiction, hangover, imagination, reality, short story, story, surreal