𝐋𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞 🍞PEAKY BLINDERS 🥖

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Please see Author's Note for some very personal, important information I want to share.

This hasn't been edited to the fullest.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

A sudden, overwhelming chill froze Kizzie to her core.

Then, there was nothing.

Tommy was silent as he watched his sister pace the length of his office.

She had to move. Staying still made the cold catch up again. Kizzie felt like she was falling, but the ground never came. She wasn't sure if she was grateful for Tommy being here, seeing this. Why was he not reacting to this news?

"What happened?" she asked, quicker than she normally spoke.

"He was shot outside a bar in Boston..." Tommy felt a tug in his chest at what he was going to say next. "He apparently pleaded with God for our forgiveness."

"A bar?"

Confusion set in at what she chose to focus on. "An American pub."

"Oh."

She stopped pacing.

"I will be seeing Arthur and the others this afternoon. We are going hunting for Easter and will be gone until tomorrow morning... But if you rather I stay, I will, Kizzie. I understand this might be difficult news to process."

"I'm going to my room now please."

Tommy nodded and watched her mechanically leave his office. This was not the end of their father's death.

♡ ̆̈

Kizzie slept.

Then slept some more.

Dreamless but unrestful. Like she was sick with the flu. The smallest seedling of sadness was felt once she woke, but she forced it down as quickly as it came. She wanted to be like Tommy and not care about the news.

Kizzie believed in ghosts. She'd never seen one before, but even church talked about a holy type of ghost. Maybe regular people became ghosts too. Was her father one? Or did he go to Hell or Heaven?

The prospect of Heaven made her hot with agitation; he did not deserve to go there.

So did the thought of him being in her room right now, free to see her without her wanting. That sadness came again, more intense.

Go away, go away, go away!

Kizzie wanted to scream. He lived in her head as well as in death. She'd been happy all these years without him in her life. So why did she suddenly feel his absence so intensely?

And if she had to search deep down inside herself, she did not miss her father. Not the man he was, and certainly not the parent he claimed to be.

Kizzie used to wish, when she was in the hospital, for him to suddenly realize he left her there and come back to save her. Bring her back home and be the father she wished for... But that never happened, even when he did come back. He was still cruel and hated Kizzie and she never understood why.

There was a knock at her door.

"Hello."

Aunt Polly stumbled inside. "I know you're tired, but let's go out."

Kizzie sat up; her body felt so damned heavy. "Where?"

"I have a confession to make," she said. "Get dressed and meet me downstairs."

♡ ̆̈

Fresh air was welcome.

But being around strangers hurt Kizzie's heart. She didn't want to be around anyone. She didn't even know what possessed her into agreeing with her aunt into coming.

Maybe it was Aunt Polly's drunken form that made Kizzie feel guilty. The woman lost a brother. She knew him better than Kizzie ever could. And she knew Aunt Polly didn't care much for him, but still...

Tidal waves of sadness went up and over Kizzie. No, not now. Not in church.

But it was so quiet and nice feeling in here. She wanted to cry, but the pain kept her from doing so. So did the embarrassment and guilt at even caring about her father.

She looked at the golden statues of angels and God and his mother on the walls and back of the church. Aunt Polly said that God forgave all in exchange for his execution. He was nailed to a cross and left to die. The church had the cross hanging all the way at the back, where the priest usually stood and read from the Bible. Jesus was painted gold... If he was alive and real, Kizzie would think him rather handsome.

Jesus and God forgave the worst people, so long as they believed in God. Kizzie knew that her father believed; they went to church every Sunday. Father even tried getting the priests to cure Kizzie or at least bless her.

Father did go to Heaven...

Movement from the confessional booths caught Kizzie's eye. Her aunt came stumbling out, followed by the priest from his side, worried and brows down. His eyes met Kizzie and held her curious gaze.

Aunt Polly gripped her arm and pulled her away. They left the church in an awkward rush.

♡ ̆̈

Later that evening, the priest and Father Hughes met under God to discuss a serious matter.

The priest shuffled his stance. "She wasn't alone... There was a young girl with her. Tommy's sister."

"The defective one?"

"Yes, sir. I believe her name is Kezia Shelby."

Father Hughes nodded and looked past the man. "I remember her from the hospital when she was a child. Such a poor case. Her father wanted nothing to do with her, God rest her soul. The man recently died, as I understand."

"May he rest in peace... The mentally unwell are the worst cases, Father."

"That is true. I should pay her a visit. To send my regards."

Author's Note:

In August, my father died. I had been no contact with him since my early 20s. I am 32 now. He had narcissistic personality disorder with sociopathic tendencies, so you can maybe guess some of the verbal and mental abuse I had to endure from him growing up. My therapist told me, not long after working with her, that my family was one of the worst she had ever heard... His inability to empathize, mixed with substance abuse, made it actually impossible to have any meaningful relationship with him. But worst of all?

I was never, ever going to receive an apology. And when he died, that hope, no matter how small and stupid and impossible it was, was never going to happen now.

I have no regrets about not speaking to him. I felt I had no choice. I was terrified of him up until his death. But I did underestimate how much his death would affect me, given I had no relationship with him; I hated him, so why did it hurt so much when he died? I do not miss him, but I do miss the fantasy of having a real father.

This chapter came from a very personal place. If nothing else, I hope it brings some comfort to people. Grief can be very difficult to put into words. It makes no logical sense, especially when you are mourning a shitty parent.

In the words of my therapist, "You are allowed to mourn the man you knew for 32 years, and the father you never got to have. It's a double-death."

Thank you all for reading. I love you always.