Ruined Secrets of Love [txs] [wlw]

2) Strange Coincidences

TW: Graphic Death & Scars

Calista

Here I am again, wrapped in the warmth of the sheets of my bed. I ran my fingers on the keyboard, clacking away on my personal laptop, deep exhales escaping through my pursed lips. I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

How do I actually put this into words?

As much as I love to write—especially since I was 8 years old after being inspired to commit a hobby rooting from reading—I was the girl who would stick her head into one book after another to cope with the reality she was in. Filled with ideas of pursing her dream of being an author, even if it seemed silly at times, she couldn't help but find solace in the fictional worlds of her favorite books.

Writing can be quite a challenge when it comes to meeting the expectation of producing flawless work every time. The process of creating a perfect piece can be a true pain in the ass.

"Done!" I mutter to myself, enjoying the bliss of having a brand-new written chapter online.

I shut my laptop close, extending my arms out forward for a much needed stretch. Yawning, I made my way out of the sheets. I settle down the laptop on the desk, shuffling in the direction towards the bathroom connected to my bedroom.

The marble floor tiles feel frigid beneath my feet. I separate the distance between me and the mirror, not sparing a single glance towards the obvious reflection.

Chills immediately prickled my porcelain skin as I took off the black oversized shirt. I slowly turn my head, noticing the discoloration reflected in the lens of the mirror.

Wounds etched across my back bring back memories of the past. Memories that will never fade—latching to the essence of my soul—always haunting me. I could never forgive the amount of suffering my own father had put me through, that little girl yearns for his affection.

To the same young girl that lives in me, love was an elusive and fleeting concept—a distance spark lost somewhere within the murky depths of a boundless ocean. Desperately, she searched for a glimpse of her parents' affection one last time, but found only an endless emptiness. It felt as if there was no foundation of love to be found, no solid ground to anchor that connection. All she longer for was a flicker of warmth, a glimmer of reassurance that her parents' love was real and tangible—not a made-up fantasy of her imagination.

Others might argue that you shouldn't hold grudges against your parents nor resent them until the day you leave this planet because, well, they're your parents. You should be expressing your deepest gratitude to them; they are the reason you're born. You should love them. You're their offspring in the end, after all. Blood, flesh, bones—everything. As the saying goes, 'Blood is thicker than water.'

I smooth the tips of my fingers over my scars, lost in my own reflection. I'm just glad they aren't home, especially him. My father is better off as a ghost, absent from my life, than being a part of it. When he's present, he indulges himself in booze as a supposedly relaxing method to relieve his so-called stress.

Mother isn't any different from him; she simply sits on the sidelines like a spectator. Comparing her trauma to mine, she once declared, 'I had it far worse than you.' Always with the rants of how I have life easier then hers where she fought to be where she was now, that I am born with a silver spoon in my mouth.

Sometimes I do miss how she was before.

Luxury, wealth, and status are wrapped in the lie of what a "perfect" family we are.

We do have our reputations to preserve after all.

I fixed my gaze on the rising water level in the bathtub, adjusting the handle to prevent the water from overflowing.