hiii! would you ever write a blurb, about how big acted agter her dad leaving her? i really enjoy the angst
oh this is just pure angst i respect the hustle lmao
enjoy !
"where are you?" hand on the telephone line, your short legs extend to their full height so that the phones receiver fits against your ear. no sound will be lost, no words mistranslated. you have to know where he is.
"ladybug..."
he sighs. all he fucking does is sigh. the sound enrages you. your knuckles clench together and theres a bitter taste hearing the nickname that was once sweet honey to you.
"daddy, its been days." you wont cry. you refuse to let him hear you cry.
only dustin cries. only your mother cries. but never you. never your father.
"i know, y/n." he sounds tired now. as if your insistence on missing the man who raised you and sang melodies to you and rocked you to sleep every time you had nightmares is a burden to him.
you blink away tears. "then come home."
the plead hangs over the telephone line. somewhere in virginia your father is on the other end. maybe hes already in a different state. maybe hes an acre away, maybe even outside your window, haunting your childhood home.
"you know i cant."
why? why why why why why?
but there are far too complex things to understand at twelve. asking "why", as youve learned since your father leaving, only amounts to shitty excuses and lies.
"did i-" did i do something wrong? did you leave because of me?
despite the words dying in your throat, your father still understands the unspoken ghosts that shadow your room. "no, ladybug. this has nothin' to do with you or dust, you hear me? i just... your mama and i werent happy. thats all."
whos carrie?
you will never forget the way your mother screamed in her husbands face, tears staining her red cheeks as you cradled dustin to your chest, muffling his ears that he wouldnt hear anything else.
where are you going, daddy?
just out for a few days. nothin' to worry about, lil' ladybug.
he had ruffled your hair. pinched your cheek and hid his suitcase behind his body. guilty. but you didnt want to admit it then, not yet.
this has nothin' to do with you or dust, you hear me?
y/n, is daddy okay? why is mama crying?
dustin is only nine and hes already experienced more hurt than you ever thought possible at that age. you cant protect him from it. not when the source of the hurt keeps calling the house to hear your voices. not when the source of the hurt still has his cologne in the bathroom. when he still has his guitar in the den with strings left unstrummed.
not when the entire house is a physical reminder of the man who abandoned it.
your mama and i werent happy. thats all.
thats all. thats all thats all thats all thats all.
as if its nothing. as if your world hasnt ended and youre left to pick up the pieces all alone.
thats all.
"fuck you." youre twelve and the words feel heavy on your tongue in a satisfying manner. "fuck. you!"
"y/n, you know we dont use that language-"
"i hate you!"
"i know youre upset-"
youre screaming and your knees shake under the weight of fury that is like a rock in your stomach. hard. unmoving. there isnt room for anything else.
"i hate you!" you do. you hate him. you hate the man who calls you ladybug and your baby brother dust and your mama honeybee. you hate him.
"i love you. you and dustin, i love you."
"you left!"
he doesnt respond.
"youre a fucking coward! a goddamn coward for leaving us!" wasnt it he who told you never to abandon the ones you love?
all you hear is his breathing. the air that is wasting its chemical makeup to keep him alive.
"how could you do this to us? to-to me?" arent you his baby, too? arent you his girl? his blood?
"y/n-" only it isnt your fathers voice that coaxes your name with remorse. its your mother, its her arms that hold you as you cry. its her voice that whispers for you to hang up the phone. that the man on the other side isnt worth it.
"no!" you try to shake her off of you. your elbow clips her chin but still she holds you. still she is gently. and it infuriates you even more. its all bullshit. all such fucking bullshit. "let me go!"
to your mother or father, you arent sure who the plead is for.
in the corner of your eye you see dustin. small, dimpled dustin hiding under a hat your father got him only a few weeks ago at the county fair.
hes watching your mother physically restrain you as your hurl extremities at your father. the strain in your voice draws the image of blood. your mothers bruised chin draws the image of purple. dustins tears the image of blue.
your father taught you kindness. his final lesson will be how to let anger consume you raw.
