First Strike

Chapter 41 | Dear Dad

Coming home was weird. Because Hayes was weird, he'd been avoiding work for the days since I'd been in the hospital. To my surprise, he never left me alone, even when I kept asking him to.

But I didn't mean it, I was just hurt. We didn't talk about his words or that I heard them. But I accepted them, he didn't love me and I knew my standing. He was doing his job and keeping his social standing.

We didn't really talk. But at least Frito was happy to see me home today as he returned to work. He'd been staying at Olives, she said he'd been a good boy with her visits to me.

I felt sick to my stomach with the upcoming events of finals and graduation. Because everything was coming to a close and eventually so would me and Hayes.

"Hey I'm gonna head out for lunch could I get you anything" Olive comes back from the bathroom grabbing her keys.

"I'm all set, I'll just be a couch potato with Frito" I stared at him nuzzled into me "I have some school to do and some time to spend with him" My eyes moved back up to Olive.

"My favorite dog Mom" she teases and then leaves me to be alone in the house. I found myself gazing at the views of the city, I knew what I needed to do. How to replenish myself with not actual therapy, but coming up with my own form of it. One that would not just keep me sane, but make me sound insane.

So I reach for a pad of paper and a pen. I stare at the blank sheet of paper in front of me. I never know where to start with letters, but I know the first thing is to figure out who it's to.

Dear Dad,

This is a solid start to where this should go. But I seem rather tongue-tied in what to write because he isn't talking back to me. No form of conversation would ever be built again. Only a sad letter and notes, ones that would never be read. But I have to believe they will, that may be beyond the walls of our knowledge. My father is out there in the sky reading as I write.

I was not religious, far from it even. But I had to hope, I needed faith in these times to keep me sane. I have to believe in something and I believed that my father would one day see me again and say 'I read your letters, Lily'.

So I continue, the mocking trail of letters. I write it beyond my doubts, my fears. Beyond what I worry people shall think because it's not for anyone else but myself and for him.

I always thought those who write to the dead were stupid, but now I understand. Because this is the closest thing I have to contacting you, it's my last form of communication. I wish I could have just one last conversation, but I know that's being greedy and it still will never be enough.

Everyone runs on their own timelines. Yours was just shorter than others, and others are never guaranteed to be longer or even shorter at that. We are all on running cycles of life, but some are on borrowed time. You were no exception to that painful rule, but you were a beautiful soul throughout it.