Talk to Me

Written: 2002   |   Setting: Family home   |   700 words   |   5 Minutes minute read

She waited. She listened for the familiar footfall of her father. From the kitchen table to the living room, the steps of an aching man. His chair creaked as he stood and the floors moaned in places. She listened breathlessly in the darkness as he roamed the house.

His feet traveled down the hall, up the hall. He seemed to pace as she listened. She knew he was searching for her, but still she hid. The warm protection of the room made her feel safe and secure. She knew he was sad, but couldn’t find the stamina to walk out and greet him. Her strength drained from her as soon as the steps began.

The same night, every year, brought the same familiar echoes. As she dozed off, she knew what would come.

Nightmares.

They would shake her and force her into worlds and circumstances she wished she’d never known. The realities were brutal. She didn’t want to see the damage done. She didn’t want to be under the dark, hateful skies, or pulled under in the deep green water which seemed to grab her ankles and pull.

She didn’t want to watch him become a monster. A crazed and cruel beast who searched for her, to bring some unknown end to her young life.

“Darling, where are you?” the voice always asked.

It whispered and pleaded at the same time. She lulled with his voice. It made her feel like a child again, protected and secure, knowing that there were many around her to save her from harm.

She could never find the strength to answer before the footsteps went out the door, never find the courage to confront her own father. She would listen as she went to sleep. The memories of his walk stayed with her until then. When she woke, he would be gone.

In that deep sleep, she believed it would be dreamless. A solemn black void for her to aimlessly drift inside of.

She wondered if he would follow her there.

She recalled his prolonged illness. The constant worry, every day a sign of the worst. Each day, she felt a part of herself go further into sorrow, as though a piece of her were dying along with that around her. He crumbled from a strong man to a frail body that was pale and barely breathing. His energy left, his endurance vanished. Every day, his body was tortured with pain that only grew worse.

She opened her eyes, darkness still outside. He was gone. She knew he had left. She stood up and walked, tracing his footsteps. She wished she could find the bravery to talk to him. He hadn’t been gone long. She was still his daughter. Yet, she froze. Every time he approached, she froze.

She was a coward.

She went to his former bedroom and sat. While he was gone, at times she could still feel his presence there. Sometimes, she even wore his shirt and ring, just to feel closer to him. Just to feel protected again.

She sat on the unused mattress, waiting for something to happen. Would he return? Would he come back and wait for her to gather the strength to communicate? No one could do it for her.

She dreamed that she could be as close to him as she used to. It pained her heart that they had grown so far away from one another. She missed him. She wondered if that was the reason for her reluctance to speak when it came time.

He had only been dead three years.

She knew he still remembered her. He still called to her and waited for a response. Part of her feared he would leave forever if she ever did reply, as though all he wanted was to hear her voice, and she would never see him again.

She knew he would come again next year.

And perhaps, she would talk then.