Oh, Father. What had he done? Amelia Bloom. Daughter. Big heart. All-smiles despite her past. Just a little bit normal.
There she was, stumbling out of a grimy public bathroom with blood on her face, filthy clothes, and a spirit hollowed out. Her guts emptied, her limbs barely holding her upright as the cold nipped at her and the air wrapped around her like a cold whisper. The high had worn off, and yet her body still trembled like a leaf. Because he—he reached into her chest and twisted her heart without flinching.
Her lips barely aligned with the nozzle, her hands trembling as if made of porcelain. He had always treated her like she was an object to protect; a doll, something to control, something fragile to the touch. Something breakable. And then he broke her anyway.
Sliding to the floor, Amelia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, cursing under her breath. From a distance, she looked like a puppet someone had cut the strings on. Her cheek was still red, a swollen print blooming across her skin, on the opposite side of the cut that would leave a scar too hard to ignore.
But it was nothing compared to the vacancy in her eyes. Void. She shut them tight, refusing to let the shame spill over, refusing to give him another tear. But it didn't matter in the end. All her suffering, every wound, every lie, every night she had begged the stars, traced back to him.
Her father turned monster.
That night became one of those nights when she used to wish on stars, begging for the curse to lift, for her story to finally change. For him to change. She used to believe in miracles; she'd sit by the window and look at where the moon stood, looking peaceful because it didn't have Fathers like him plotting its downfall.
He cradled her fate in his hands. He twisted it into something unrecognizable when he decided she didn't belong in the world outside his walls. The first time she peeked beyond the glass, she ended up wounded by his words. Her reward for dreaming was his open hand and the sharp truth on his tongue.
She once hoped he could change. That maybe, just maybe, he'd choose to parent instead of punish. Instead of hiding secrets. Instead of lying. But she was foolish. He would always play the monster in children's stories, rather than the Father who read those bedtime stories to sleep.
Oh, Father.
The damage was done. The scar was deep. Maybe one day he'd die with the guilt buried in his chest, where his heart should have been, scorching his insides. She had no forgiveness left to give, not for him, not after what he did to her and Mother.
