500 Words

,,You’re disaster,” something once says. ,,Something wrong. Aren’t you?”
And she has no idea how to answer that, is only rendered speechless as she slowly steps around, trail leaving behind something alike to naught.
,,Why won’t you answer?”, it pushes and she steps back, eyes blank and mouth empty. She’s forgotten how to form words.
Then a laugh. An utterly despicable thing that makes her gut curl and chest tightens. She gasps.
,,But how could I expect that of you. You are, after all-“
,,So wrong.”


13. Day Twelve

One day, the phone calls
And of course she should have known
That the break she easily is breathing in
Brutally and without mercy
Will be torn from her
By a past she wished long gone.


She manages to stutter out full words and decent sentences before she hangs up, body empty and weird and she only manages to stare out of the window before her legs move, takes her to somewhere well known.
,,Mom, it’s father. There’s something wrong.”               


She doesn’t know what to say or how to react when she stands in the room filled with light, a white bed in front of her where he lies, and never has she seen a storm this weak and timid. It’s a picture wrong in every way, especially the way he peacefully sleeps, as if the world never did them wrong and that everything loveable awaits him when he opens his eyes.
So she just sits down at the chair beside his bed, hand reaching out and gently grabbing his.
She remembers her request of him. Go.
And he did – he did leave, too far for even her dreams to reach him. She feels her chest tightening as fear makes it arrival, grabbing at her with scratchy hands and she almost gasps, and that is until she feels a gentle squeeze around her hand and only then
Does she allow herself to cry.


She remembers biking down the street, midsummer making the afternoon sun something luminous and warm, and she remembers her father’s voice, telling them to hurry or else he’ll leave them behind.
She remembers kicking the pedals with all her might, not because of her father’s words, but because she enjoyed the rush she felt around her, the way the wind gently patted her cheeks and made her hair whip around her face, something utterly free and easy.
She remembers hearing her brother yelling something behind her, but she doesn’t hear or see it, she’s too caught up in the way the port is filled with laughter and people, stalls set up around every corner, young and old people shouting from them, trying their best to catch buyers.
She remembers walking over an incredible small bridge, something almost too small to actually be a bridge, but it was a passage over a small river, so she guessed it must count as that.
She remembers pointing everywhere in excitement and her brother being right behind her, pulling their father around and watching with eyes stuck in awe at everything they saw, something entirely simple and pure.
She remembers the sun slowly setting over the ocean, it’s last sunbeams casted over the market and people slowly leaving, their father, as the hour passed, beginning to tell them they needed to go home too soon, and oh how she remembers not wanting to leave but knowing she has to.
And it might be the only happy thing about him she carries with her, but it’s still something that makes her body hunch forward, mouth swallowing back cries as silent tears stream down her face, sorrow taking her in and holding her there.

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