Ladybug [h.s.]

23

Delilah

~~~~~~~~

I knew Harry was mad because he wasn't picking up any of my calls.

Despite my father's insistence on leaving him to cool off, I couldn't go without trying to reach him. Trying to rectify what I let clatter and fragment into the ground. I don't know what I would've done if he did pick up - maybe screamed to the heavens that I love him. That I've always loved him. That I can't ever remember a time where I didn't love him. So wholeheartedly it felt like I would burst into a million sparks of molten flames. Love like lava permeating underneath my skin and rolling through my veins. Flashes of violent, destructive heat begging to take over my very existence until there was nothing left of me untouched by Harry. By my Ducky.

I didn't sleep well, caught in some in-between state between wakefulness and sleep, where time faded into nothing and the world was eerily quiet. I could glance out the window to see the leaves quivering as if they were afraid of the dark, like Harry used to do when we were little and lost track of the sun. Walking just-too-fast home from the park before complete night fell over us.

"Cinnamon toast's on the table," my dad calls up the stairs gently, careful not to wake my mom as the two of us get ready for work. Our routine down to the minute second, where he knows the moment I'm about to come down and has toast ready and waiting.

"Good morning, Daddy," I slide underneath his arm to hug into his side while he leaves a kiss into my hair.

"Hi, baby girl, how are you?"

The radio static fizzles out with the end of some Elvis song while I take a bite and murmur out a quiet, "okay."

Like clockwork, morning music fades into morning news and my dad and I settle at the table to listen before we both rush off into the busy-ness. A wave of uneasiness sinks in the pit of my stomach for reasons beyond my understanding when I hear the familiar, stoic voice of the announcer.

"There was a motor vehicle accident just last night," my father shakes his head in shame, like he always does when talk of cars and wrecks comes up. As if he can't bear to listen. Unspoken memories of Harry's parents' names humming through the silence. He doesn't have to tell me they're on his mind for me to know, "in which the driver crashed into a lighting fixture and was pronounced dead upon impact. Witnesses say the driver was swerving between lanes as if he were under the influence."

Dad stands up roughly, pushing in his chair angrily. A flash of emotion I'm not used to seeing from him. He starts speaking over the radio, a disgusted look decorating his face, spitting out his words, "People are fucking pathetic, he could have killed someone."

Both of us go silent in a singular instant, the moment the next words settle around us. "...man by the name of Stanley Peterson..."

My neck turns in slow motion until my eyes land on my dad's, blown out wide and jaw fallen open. I don't hear anything past his name, just silence and the rushing sound of my blood behind my ears. Dad doesn't speak; I think he's waiting for me to, first.

I've never understood death, no matter how long I've worked at the hospital. How, within seconds, someone can vanish into nothingness, as if they never existed in the first place. Usually nothing changes day to day, and I don't know if that makes it feel worse or better. Like you're reminded of how easy it is to forget, until suddenly you're reminded of how hard it is to forget. Mr. and Mrs. Styles dying didn't alter my life in any dramatic way, aside from losing my Ducky, but, sometimes, it would come flooding down on all of us. A brutal reminder of love. A brutal reminder of loss.