She wants to cry. She wants to curl up in a ball in the corner and cry and cry and cry until there’s no tears left. She wants to punch something. She wants to hit the wall until there’s a hole in it or her knuckles are bruised and bloody. She wants to scream, a deep, angry cry. She wants to push her pain outwards and as far away from her as it can be — but she can’t. It’s choking her, suffocating each deep, panicked breath that she carries in. She wishes he’d just stop talking to her, stop with poetic apologies and tears that he shouldn’t even get to cry. She wishes he would leave, leave and never come back. She wishes he hadn’t in the first place. But you can’t change the past and the present is divided equally among the occupants of the situation — and the future, the future of a fractured relationship between father and daughter, is so uncertain & cloudy she couldn’t even begin to wonder what would happen.
But upon reevaluation, isn’t it all terribly clear? She hates him. She wishes she didn’t, she wishes there was more forgiveness in her heart. She’s always been too forgiving, too softhearted and willing to see the goodness in those around her. But what kind of man left his child? And what kind of daughter stood there, waiting with baited breath for an apology he actually meant? Thirteen years had passed — the minutes and moments and hours she spent with him now felt like nothing in comparison. But a girl of twenty-five is different than a girl of twelve: perhaps minutes and moments and hours are more valuable now, without the wide expanse of childhood stretched out in front of you. Maybe now, she only has the ability to forgive those who didn’t rip it away from her.
“ I’m — I’m going to regret it? ” She wants to laugh, bitterly and full of contempt, but she can’t even exhale. It’s as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room, and the breath out of her lungs. Instead, her voice comes out mousy and small and wrought with pain rather than anger. “ What … what do you even know about that? You don’t regret leaving your wife and children! No, scratch that, your wife who can barely get out of bed in the morning and your children who were too young to take care of themselves. Why on Earth would I regret telling you to stay the hell away from me, then? That has to absolutely be … minuscule on the Mark Phillips scale of fuck-ups, right? If ruining four lives is something you’d do over again and over again and over aga — ” She doesn’t even realise she’s been moving closer to him as she continued to speak, and now she was close enough to touch him — thus, hands met chest and she shoved him backwards, not even flinching as the spoon clattered to the floor. It was that push, weak and fragile and yet somehow as powerful as she could manage: that is what causes her to cry. Warm, saltwater tears slip down copper toned cheeks, and the lump rising in her throat only makes the lack of breath she gets in feel like less and less. Panic rises in her throat like vomit, as if she’s going to be sick, but the only thing that comes out is a pathetic whimper. “ You don’t know that I’ll feel better or regret this or forgive you. ” Her chin jutted out, jaw squared, and she looked him dead in the eye as the momentary weakness of eyes clouded with tears dissipated. The moisture left them, final tears dropping from her cheeks; her eyes were soft yet resentful, almost as if she felt bad for him. “ You don’t even know me at all. ”
he fights against every instinct to shout back, he’s a volcano that’s slowly erupting, burning himself from the inside out. self-preservation is only natural but it’s always been easy for him to see the consequences of words. laid out in the script of a play, life was a game of cause and effect. yet the consequence of action eluded him, perhaps, because, unlike words, the repercussions didn’t have to be faced. they could, be physically walked away from. his words, to him, were the only thing he had total control over. he wouldn’t waste them on a sentiment like that’s not what i meant. it would feel good in the moment, for the split second before she affirmed that yes actually, that’s what he did mean and the pit of his stomach would overflow with nauseating guilt once more.
so if he’s going to feel it, he feel it for all it’s worth - the pain of restraint more unbearable than if he were to shout back. god, he wants to shout back and a devilish thought enters that argues that maybe it could be good, catharsis for both of them. that fire meeting fire isn’t so bad if they’re both already in flames. he swallows it down, but saliva doesn’t do much for a wildfire. ‘ please. ’ he begs, but he’s not sure what his plea is for. she’s given him more than he could ask for her, time that he doesn’t deserve and patience that only hurts her to give. yet, he asks anyways. selfish to leave and selfish to return, selfish to see a home in her now when he’s been traipsing the world with freedom as his second skin. ‘ i regret hurting you. i regret that. ’ he utters and the weakness oozes from each words and he wonders whether it was worth saying at all. they can’t get back from this, and it repeats like a looming mantra over and over with more force with each repetition. how does he get back from this ?
she pushes him, and bleary hazel hues look at her with a wounded expression. it lasts for less than a moment, and then it’s gone. the shrill clink of the spoon is far faded but it rings in his mind, and he mentally picks up the pieces of himself. putting them together like a puzzle, he just needs a moment, a moment to remember how to properly function. ‘ i’m sorry. ’ he breathes out, but it’s void of emotion, and he can’t bring himself to reject the numbness. it’s a tidal wave he welcomes, and if nothing else it’ll put the fire out. ‘ i don’t - i don’t know what to say. ’ he shrugs and the callousness is chilling but it comes from care, he just wants her to believe her. to believe that he loves her more than he possibly thought he could ever love anyone. he knows her and he wants to know her, in all his contradictions it’s the only thing that makes sense. ‘ i’m sorry. ’ this time, he apology finds footing. it doesn’t make reference to the past, but for the now. for what he has to do with an unremitting mercy, with stolen clemency that she deserves to keep. he has to take this from her and he knows he’s taken so much already, but this will be the last time. it has to be. ‘ i’m sorry. i’m sorry i’m not leaving again. ’ the last piece falls into place. terrifying love blooms over and over. he lets himself step into it. ‘ i’m staying, and i’ll be here when you want to talk. i’ll be here. ’ unfettered belief coat his promises, he wants to be worth her time. he’ll wait for her, just as she waited for him. he’ll wait and wait, and hope she’ll come back one day.
