PROLOGUE|| A Damsel in the Grave

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Thank you so much for the wishes. A little return gift to you all❤️

"Our eyes had the most scandalous affair; making love in secrecy in a graveyard full of dead lovers."

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

"When I first met my mom, I hated her with a passion I didn't know I had."

Mishika lifts her gaze to the silent sea of faces, hearing the collective intake of breaths. The revelation catches them off-guard. Her eyes inevitably drop to the front row where her father sits beside her stepmother. His hand hovers over his lips, his posture shrinking, folding in on itself as if he's pretending he isn't present in this room when the crowd's curious gaze veers towards him. He looks as if he wishes to disappear from the very face of the earth. He looks as if he's contemplating disowning his one and only child.

She held back a snicker. Same, Dad. If I had a daughter like me, I would disown her, too.

Her hands on the bunch of papers tighten, her unforgiving hold causes them to crumple. "Hatred was the wrong word I'd assumed I felt that day. It was a pile of years of disappointment. For years, I felt I was let down. How could she give me up to my father and leave? She didn't look back. Never called. Isn't that the betrayal a child should feel?"

Murmur fills in the air.

Mishika dare not to look at her father again. A bitter smile rushes to her lips as she read the next words, "But—"

"Sorrows, my child." A cold, vice-like grip latches onto her forearm, dragging her away from the microphone. "God understands your pain. You don't have to express everything."

Through her wet lashes, she peeks at the Father, who attempts to yank her from the podium, his dark eyebrows arched with determination. Her eyes widen. Puzzlement wraps around her mind, and she digs her heels in, refusing to leave the stage.

Twisting her face away from the mic, she murmurs, "I am not done with my eulogy."

"A eulogy is meant to honour the deceased," the priest retorts in an even voice, keeping his tone as soft as possible, "Not to be a complaint letter full of forsaken responsibilities and unresolved issues. You may hate the—"

Mishika cuts in with an exasperated sigh, her bony shoulders drooping. "You misunderstood my words, Father. Just because I started by saying I hated my mother, that doesn't mean I still do. That was the opening act to get the crowd's full attention."

Lines of confusion align over his weathered face. "Pardon?"

"Let me get back to speech. I promise it gets better." Offering a kind smile, she turned back to the podium. "Sorry for that interruption," she addresses the crowd. "I get judged too soon."

Choruses of chuckle echo in the memorial chapel.

Mishika sweeps a long glance at the portrait of her mother before lowering her head to the letter in her trembling hand. "I misjudged her." A wistful smile flickers on her lips. "Well, who wouldn't? What child will still worship the mother after watching her sit in a dashing, sleek car and glide to her dream life, pretending the child never existed—or worse, the child was a mere inconvenience? Downright wretched, right?"

There went her anxiety dancing on her tongue, splattering the unscripted words.

The father of the speaker smacks his forehead, his glare enunciating—Do not wash your dirty linens in public. His wife pats his back to ease his nerves. He exhales a long breath, silently rejoicing that he invested in a vasectomy. Perhaps his genes were at fault. Thankfully, he had just one offspring.

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⏰ Last updated: Aug 05 ⏰

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