Echoes Of Destiny | Multicouple ✓

55. WHISPERS OF TRUTH

Avya

Stars.

They have always fascinated me. Cloaked in darkness, they shine bright. But it wasn't the perfect metaphor. Somehow, it felt right yet wrong. In reality, stars are blazing fire, built of something hotter than even the sun-bigger, more powerful. It's just the distance that makes them look so small, so delicate, so fucking weak.

But they are anything but.

It's the millions of light years between us that create a completely different picture. Maybe that's how life is.

Some truths are blazing hot and so bright like the sun, occupying half our existence. Some truths are like the moon, only visible when night falls, waning and waxing, not as bright as the sun.

And some are like stars-unpredictable, distant, yet more powerful than the ones we've believed in for half our existence.

It's the realization, a change of perspective, something that wouldn't have been possible in the present that just passes by.

I stare at the white walls of the hospital, somewhere between crying and clinging to reality. I had lost consciousness.

But I still remember it all: the darkness, the blood on my hands, then another hand-something that pulled me as I crashed into a chest. Strong, broad shoulders enveloped me. The warmth in them didn't take away the pain, but it soothed it. I had never felt so protected in my life-from the world, from myself.

We fight many battles in our lives, and I was tired of fighting mine. I was.

But this was no battle. This war had been waging inside me for years now. It started long ago, when my father stopped telling me bedtime stories before tucking me in and kissing my forehead goodnight with wishes of sweet dreams. First, the stories stopped. Then, he stopped tucking me in. Then, the forehead kisses ceased. Finally, the goodnight wishes ended.

Over the years, I didn't know how those sweet dreams turned into nightmares.

I look around at the stark white walls, breathing deeply, taking in the familiar hospital air.

The nurse beside me looked at me with concern. She's been pestering me about how low my blood pressure is and whether I've eaten anything.

I had lost my appetite long ago.

I was a girl that life had battered. I glanced at my scars, holding my hands in front of me-a stark reminder of the cruelty of the world. No, not the world, my father.

But doesn't that include the world too? How can I trust this world if I can't trust my father? My parent-the one who is the reason for my existence, the one who is supposed to protect me, cherish me, love me the most in this world.

How could he? I don't cry at the thought, nor do I feel any more pain after it.

I just want to know the reason. And I'm very much allowed to think of one, ask for one-heck, demand one.

I was a girl whose father ignored her. So, like an attention-seeking whore, I pulled stunts to grab his attention. I knew how much he revered discipline, his rules, his way of life. So drinking alcohol was my way of gaining his attention. I hoped he'd act out when his only daughter spiraled into a deadly addiction. He didn't.