Abaddon

part 2: the cafe

2 weeks later

Callie's POV:

It's been 2 weeks now since dad's death. Things have been very different in the house.

Mum and I went to see his body the day after finding out about his passing. The feeling in my stomach when I saw him was unexplainable. I felt sick, distraught and horrified at the same time.

It was definitely my father.

As soon as I saw him I knew that their was no hope that they had made a mistake. Some part of me was praying inside that we would be told that they made a mistake and it wasn't him. That he would be sitting back at home with his arms out wide and tell me that he wasn't gone.

But it was him. It was really him.

The difference was he had lost his glow. He was no longer smiling. He was no longer laughing. He was no longer himself.

Instead I saw a stone cold version of my father. His eyes were lifeless but they were still that crystal blue colour I had always admired. That's something I loved about my father, we had the same eyes.

My mother's were brown. I've always admired her eyes too. Many people with brown eyes always complain about them but I think there's a certain beauty in them. Sometimes I kind of wish I had brown eyes, but I like having the same as my fathers. Something else to have in common with him.

My mother didn't stop crying when she saw him. Everything she was feeling, I was feeling on the inside. I wanted to cry too, let all my emotions run free, but my body decides to always put up a wall. I hate crying in front of people, I don't know why but I like to always be as brave as I can.

Moments like these is when I tap my fingers, two, one, one, two

It always helps me keep my emotions in control. I don't know why I do it but it's like some sort of superpower- being able to calm myself by a tap on my fingers.

When I saw the wound from the bullet in his heart, I had to leave to be sick. Thinking about what his last moments would have been like makes me nauseous to my core. I can't believe someone did that to him. I can't believe someone took such a sweet soul away from this world.

When my mum and I left, she didn't speak a word to me in the car. We just sat silently with the radio playing at a low volume. I love the quietness but with my mother, sometimes background noise is better.

We drove back home and when we got inside she just took a bottle of whisky to her room and locked the door. At least she took herself a way.

I want to help my mum, I do. But there's no point in even trying right now. She was doing so well with not drinking.

But now, she's spiralled even further down the hole of sorrow and I don't know if my rope is long enough to pull her out.

"You can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped" was something my mother would often say to me as a child.

I used to try hide her alcohol but anytime she caught me doing that it would be a strike or two to the face and off to my room for the night. I eventually stopped trying and listened to her words, you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped.