It comes out like a whisper, one I’m sure neither of my parents hear as they rush over. “I’m sorry.” I try again.
“Are you okay?” Mom asks, her voice frantic.
“I’m sorry.” The words get stuck on repeat as if I’m incapable of coming up with anything else. Dad immediately heads over to the small linen closet, pulling out a broom and a dust pan. Mom bends down as she picks the larger ceramic pieces from the ground. I can grasp the mess around me but I feel so disconnected from the moment. Instead I find my feet carrying me down the hall, and shutting the bedroom door behind me.
Play Dear Inner Child by Peach PRC
My body slumps against the wooden wall furthest from my door. My hand grabs the side of the bed for support as I lower myself to the ground. My knees pull inwards, attempting to make myself as small as possible. Like a mouse hiding away when a loud noise is heard.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be capable of forgiveness. The little girl in me screams to be let out, but the hardened outer layer of me doesn’t know what safety means anymore. Nothing is ever safe, there’s always a chance that the worst is ahead.Dad being sober doesn’t automatically fix everything, and that is the hardest pill I’ve ever had to swallow.He had played the role of the Monster for too long. The damage has been done.
I stay fixated in that position until the sun has found a home below the horizon. The darkness envelops my bedroom, becoming my own personal tomb.
A slight knock at the door has my head perking up like a dog.
“Babygirl?” Dad calls from the other side. “I brought you some dinner.”
The air between us remains silent. My body trembles with fear and I hold my breath. A broken object has never gone unpunished.
“I’m going to come in. Okay?” He attempts to sound soothing. The door slowly creaks open, light from the hallway flooding into the unlit room. His silhouette glows as he stands in the door frame. My eyes struggle to adjust to the newfound brightness, but I can make out the plate in his hand. The smell of spaghetti floats through my room.
“I’m sorry.” I blubber out.
“It’s okay, Nova. It’s just a plate.”
My head falls in between my legs, finding solace in hiding away. “That’s not why I’m sorry.”
I hear the ground below creak as Dad makes his way over to me. The familiar pop of his bad knee lets me know he’s bent down. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“I don’t know how to not be scared of you.” I whimper, hugging my knees tighter against my forehead.
The bed next to me shifts as Dad uses it as leverage to sit down next to me. “Can I tell you something?” He questions.
I slowly raise myself from my hiding spot and look at him. The anger I had expected to find doesn’t appear. With unease, I nod.
“I’m scared of me too,” he sighs. “My failures define who I am. I am a bad husband. I am a bad father. I’m a very bad man, Nova. I know this. I don’t expect anyone to pretend I’m not.”
He reaches forward, setting the plate down. Steam from the tomato filled sauce rises in front of us. “I’m hoping that maybe with time, I can become something else. What happened, happened. And I can’t take that back. But maybe I can be something more.”
“Where do we go from here?” My thoughts cloud with sorrow as I take him in. He’s a different man than the one who left, but somehow still the exact same. The two of them are so entangled that it would be impossible to pull them apart.
He presses his thumbs together, staring down at them with a contemplative look. “Maybe for now, just the living room?” A hopeful glance catches me slightly off guard. “We could watch a movie? I’ll stay in the arm chair so you can sit next to mom.”
“Do I get to pick?” I barter, using my sleeve to wipe away some of the sadness that had dripped down my cheek.
A hefty laugh leaves him as he stands. “Sure, babygirl.”
I wait until he’s a few steps ahead before I finally unrelease myself. I stand, with my plate in hand, and walk to the living room.
Play TAPESTRY by Time Is Dead
The next afternoon I find myself sitting in the passenger seat of Saint’s car. He had fallen asleep with me on the phone last night, sharing in my sadness. He had done his best to comfort me, filling me with all the positive things about Dad being home. When that didn’t work, he suggested a field trip.
“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I giggle as I look over to him. A cigarette hangs from his plump lips, the tip burning red as he inhales.
With the stick of tobacco hanging between his teeth, he smiles at me. “Bowling.”
“What?” I twist my body towards him. The seatbelt digs into my shoulder, but it's the least of my concerns. “I hate bowling!”
