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.”


16. Day Fifteen

Her arms itches. She tries rubbing her sleeves against it, but it keeps bothering her, so much that she has to grit her teeth and leave the room. Her shoulders shake as she leans toward the wall, breath short on her and eyes somehow a bit dizzy.
She knows something’s wrong
And it’s her.


,,You’re awake,” she greets her father as she walks in, throwing down her bag beside the chair she sits upon. He turned his head when he walked in, followed her every step towards her with a soft smile upon his lips, something that completely misfits the picture she has of him.
,,Yeah. I feel tired, but it’s also nice being awake. I always get this feeling that I’m missing out, though. Makes sleeping a bit more stressful.”
She frowns.
,,I’ve never heard anyone say sleeping is stressful.”
,,Well, I’m probably just a stressful man,” he says tiredly, and she feels her chest tightening a bit, and she moves around in her seat, uncomfortable. What do I say now?
Silence envelopes them, and it’s not something pleasant. Not with the way her mind races to find something, anything, everything to say, but every sentences she tries forming in her head, turns out foul in her mouth.
Is that really what they are now? A father and a daughter that’s doomed to never connect, to never have a proper, comfortable conversation without one of them panting to find something to just talk about, to have this huge, wide gap that separates them, even now, when he’s slowly disappearing between her finger tips and there’s absolutely nothing
She can do
To stop it.


,,There’s so little I have control about in my life,” she whispers one day down to the paper, silence suffocating. ,,Except you. This,” she adds, words becoming slurry as they occupy already written stories about her path towards something worse greater.
,,But it’s so wrong… I know it is. But I don’t know what else to do,” her breath’s gasps, slowly turning out wrong and incomplete.
,,I just need to have control over something.”


Because while they gave her stability and made her feel safe, they, in no way, made her feel in control of herself. Not with the way her body traitorously shivers under their fingertips, how her toes curl when she feels their breath upon her neck or how her hands ache for the feel of their skin under her touch.
They made her feel wild and everything but in control, but in the kind of way that leaves you wanting to run fields with only the sun tasting your skin and the wind flaring your hair around, pictures that belong to a summer a lost time ago.
They made her feel alive in ways that is completely indescribable, made her able to soar the sky and touch the bottom of oceans, and everything more this world has to offer.
She intertwines her hands with theirs, words either a comfortable nothing or a pleasant everything.

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