after the death of her mother, leighton's father sends her to a boarding school halfway across the world to be taught a lesson. she knows no one and no one knows her.
but the cherry on top is who her roommate is.
#2 in ptsdawareness
#2 in anxiety
#...
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"haven't i given enough?"
-gilded lily by cults
⎯⎯⎯
I ring the doorbell, the chime echoing in the quiet suburban neighborhood.
The sound feels foreign here, like it doesn't belong.
After a few moments, the door creaks open, and I see my dad's face, etched with surprise and something else.
Fucking wonderful.
"What are you doing here?" His voice is gruff, as if I've interrupted something important.
"I came to talk," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
I've rehearsed this about a hundred times.
Thought about it a hundred times.
I want a fucking apology but to get that I need to apologized first.
He steps aside, reluctantly allowing me in. The house smells the same as it always has—like vanilla and cinamon.
My mom isn't home. She's probably out gambling or some shit.
I follow him into the living room, the place where we used to sit and watch TV together, back when things were simpler.
I knock on the door, each rap feeling louder than the last. I can't remember the last time I did this—came here willingly. The door swings open, and my dad's face appears, a mix of surprise and irritation.
He drops into his worn-out armchair, glaring at me. "So, what's so important that you had to come all the way here?"
"I thought we could talk about things," I say, struggling to keep the tremor out of my voice. "I know we haven't been close. I want to change that."
His face hardens, his eyes narrowing. "Change what, exactly? You think a few words are going to fix everything?"
"I'm not expecting miracles," I say. "I just want to try to make things better."
He laughs, a harsh, mirthless sound. "Better? You've been trying to make things better for years, and look where it's gotten us. You're still the same useless kid you've always been."
I flinch at the venom in his words. "Dad, I'm trying. It's not easy."
"Trying?" His voice rises, full of anger. "You've been failing for as long as I can remember. Nothing you do changes that. You're just a disappointment. You've seen the way I played hockey. You can't do shit yourself."
The sting of his words is unbearable. I want to scream back, but my throat feels tight, like I'm choking on my own emotions. "I'm doing my best. I'm trying. Why can't you understand that?"
