After the death of her mother, Hannah Dinzel and her younger sister Molly venture across the United States in search of their estranged father. Along the way, fragments of their hidden past reveal that they may not be as ordinary as they believe.
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Song: Burn It Down, Daughter. Content Warnings: Blood, Violence, and Strong language. ◃───────────▹
"You could fuck the truth, now that the truth's fucked you."
That's the last thing she ever heard her mother tell her father. She always wondered what it had meant. Maybe she'd misheard, through the white-painted walls several rooms over. Though it was so clear then—crystalline now—that she was sure she'd heard correctly.
You could fuck the truth.
What was the truth, exactly? And what about it had ruined Cameron Dinzel's life? It made no sense then, and even less so now.
Hannah and Molly's father, Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Dinzel, lead a disciplined life in the United States Air Force. He never spoke out of turn, stopped at two glasses of whiskey every night, and spoke like a nineteen-fifties gentleman. His black hair was consistently cut and sculpted, his beard kept short, and he always smelt like mint.
Whilst Molly has the reprieve of not remembering their father, Hannah is plagued with memories of him. She idolized him, everything he did was perfect in her eyes. The way he tucked her into bed and told her stories about him and his brother—Uncle Tommy—getting into trouble as kids; the way he'd pick her up from Sunday School and take her to get a Sunday Sundae, as he called it, from the local diner.
She recalls watching him paint their house a grayish-blue with white trim and planting marigolds in the flower beds. After that day, they became her favorite flower, and she saw him in every one she encountered. Suddenly she's there again, bare feet on fluffy green blades of glass and warm sun beaming down on her.
The truth.
What doesn't she remember?
The truth.
There is thrumming on glass.
Her father kneels beside her, flowers in hand.
"Your grandma loved marigolds, too," he tells her. She feels herself smile. "That's why we call you Hannah Mari." He paused. "You've got her spirit, y'know. She'd of loved you." Grandma Dinzel died of ovarian cancer when Hannah was a toddler. Her only memories of her were faded obscurities at best.
A truck's engine screeches to life.
The house in a peaceful culdesac flickers like a malfunctioning projection.
"You know how much I love you right?" His voice echoes now. He brings a flower up to her, dead and wilted, and tucks it behind her ear.
The grass yellows around them.
She nods. "I love you, too,"
His smile falters. A crack in his perfect exterior. "Protect your sister for me, Hannah Mari. Promise me that,"
