!TW! : Involves themes of physical and emotional abuse as well as PTSD
"We're all monsters, you know."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, when you look out at that setting sun, what do you see?"
"The sky turns from blue to yellow, just as it does every n...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
~*~
"What is this?"
The booming voice is clear, but not the voice that I expect to hear. Instead the voice is tired, worn out. No anger laced behind it. I almost, for a moment, don't think it's him. I find myself racing down the stairs in excitement, wondering what his reaction will be. Whether it's good or bad, likely bad, I am ready to prove myself. I will no longer be pushed around. I've faced a werewolf. I can face him, I tell myself again.
My father stands in the doorway to the entrance room. I know he's seen the tree and the tinsel that lines the room. Maybe he'll be glad there are no lights. I stop just a few steps up, awaiting his reaction, but instead he just stares into the room as if he's never seen anything like this before. Surely he has decorated for Christmas before.
"Welcome home, Father," I say, catching his attention. He looks over to me. He's sad.
"What have you done?" he asks again.
"I wanted to make this year special," I tell him honestly. "I haven't been able to put up decorations by myself before. Now that I'm seventeen, I wanted to liven things up."
He sighs. Part of me is frightened. Any moment now he'll burst like he always does, whip out his wand and spit out a curse before I can even make it up the stairs. But he doesn't. He just stares at me. He's never seen me before. This isn't my father. The reason he's home late is because my father's been kidnapped and replaced by this man.
"You look so much like your mother." His voice is hardly above a whisper. Never once have I seen my father cry. Not when his parents died, not when Mother got sick, nor when she died. But now his eyes fill with tears. He steps forward and grabs my hand. He pulls, making me trip down the last few steps. I fall, but he catches me in his arms, holding me to him. I can't remember the last time I hugged my own father. Now I'm frightened. Something has happened, and he isn't telling me.
"What is it?" I ask. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, dear Everleigh. Nothing is wrong. I'm just very glad to see you."
I'm not sure what to say. Anything I say might get me in trouble. You've never been happy to see me before. Why now? You haven't had a drink today, have you? Are you dying? Please tell me you're dying. I'm downright terrified. I should be feeling love from him. This is such a kind gesture. And yet all I feel is the pain that I've been harboring since my childhood. This isn't real. It's just another one of his games.
He pulls away, and his tears are gone, replaced with an expectant look. "Have you opened my gift yet? How did you like it?"
"I haven't," I admit. "I wanted to open it with you."
He doesn't smile. That much hasn't changed. He only nods. "Yes, good. Let's open it." He pulls out his wand.
