SOUL

she fights with her father about her visions

April 30th, 2007

The night was cold, the wind howling outside as the sound of a bottle clinking against the kitchen counter echoed through the house. Marigold could feel the tension in the air, heavy and suffocating, as she stood in the living room, trying to brace herself for what was coming.

Her father had been drinking again. The whiskey bottle was nearly empty, and the look in his eyes had turned dark, his usual stern demeanor twisted with anger and grief. It had been like this ever since her mother died—his temper growing shorter, the drinks coming more often, his patience for Marigold's visions disappearing entirely.

"I don't want to hear about it anymore, Mary!" he shouted, his voice slurred but sharp, cutting through the silence of the house like a knife. "No more of this... this nonsense about what you think you can see. Jesus Christ, you're just like your mother"

Marigold stood there, frozen, her fingers gripping the edge of her sweater. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to cry in front of him. "Dad... I'm not making it up. I—"

"I said stop!" he bellowed, slamming his hand down on the counter, the force rattling the empty glass beside him. "I don't want to hear another word about your visions or your ghosts or any of it. It's enough that your mother's gone!"

Marigold winced at the mention of her mother, the familiar sting of guilt bubbling up in her chest. She'd tried to warn her. She'd seen the accident, seen what was going to happen, but no matter how hard she tried, she hadn't been able to stop it.

Her voice shook as she spoke again, softer this time. "But she was just like me, she saw things too and so does Grandma-"

"Shut up!" he shouted, his face red with anger, his eyes wild. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't blame you for filling her head with that crap?"

Marigold's heart sank, and before she could react, her father stepped closer, the smell of alcohol thick on his breath. His hand shot out, and before she even realized what was happening, it connected with her face—sharp, hard, and unforgiving.

The force of the slap sent her stumbling backward, her cheek stinging with a pain that spread through her entire body. She gasped, clutching her face, too shocked to cry out. Her father had never hit her before—not like this. But the fury in his eyes, the hatred mixed with the grief, made it clear that something inside him had finally snapped.

Marigold didn't wait to see what would happen next. She turned on her heel, her vision blurry from tears, and ran to her room. She slammed the door behind her and locked it, her heart pounding in her chest as she pressed her back against the door, sliding down to the floor.

The sobs came fast and uncontrollable, her whole body shaking as she buried her face in her hands. The pain on her cheek was nothing compared to the ache in her chest—the overwhelming feeling of fear, guilt, and despair that consumed her.

For what felt like hours, she cried alone in her room, her mind spinning with thoughts she couldn't control. How had things gotten this bad? How had her father, the man who had always been so stern but loving, turned into this stranger who hurt her?

---

The next morning, there was a soft knock on her window. Marigold didn't stir at first, her body still curled up on the bed, her face pressed into the pillow. But then the knock came again, gentle but persistent.

"Marigold?" Leo's voice came through, muffled but familiar. "Are you awake?"

She wiped her swollen eyes, her heart still aching, and shuffled toward the window. When she opened it, Leo was standing outside on the tree branch, his face full of concern.

"My mom made breakfast," he said softly, his tone careful, as if he knew something was wrong. "She said you should come over."

Marigold hesitated, but the thought of being in her house, with her father still downstairs, made her stomach twist with dread. She nodded and quickly grabbed her coat, climbing down the tree and following Leo to his house. She could still feel the throbbing pain in her cheek, but she didn't say anything about it. She just wanted to be away.

When they got inside, the warmth of the home immediately surrounded her, the smell of pancakes and eggs filling the air. Adamma was in the kitchen, her back to them as she hummed quietly to herself, but the moment she turned around, her smile faltered.

Adamma's eyes widened as she took in the sight of Marigold's swollen cheek, the slight bruise that had formed overnight. Her hands paused mid-motion, and her expression shifted to one of deep concern.

"Mary, what happened?" she asked gently, moving closer. Her voice was filled with such tenderness that it made Marigold's throat tighten.

Marigold tried to shrug it off, pulling her coat tighter around herself. "I just... I just fell," she mumbled, her voice barely audible. "It's nothing."

Adamma wasn't convinced. She knelt down in front of Marigold, looking into her eyes. "Sweetheart, that doesn't look like nothing."

Marigold felt the tears welling up again, but she blinked them back, refusing to cry in front of Leo or his mom. "I'm fine," she insisted, her voice shaky. "Really."

Adamma's expression softened, but there was a deep sadness in her eyes. She didn't push Marigold further, but she knew something was terribly wrong. After breakfast, while Leo was in the other room, Adamma gently pulled Marigold aside.

"Marigold," she said softly, "I want to help you. If something is happening at home, you can tell me."

Marigold bit her lip, her eyes darting to the floor. She couldn't bring herself to say the words. The fear of what would happen if her father found out was too great. So, she just shook her head again, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm fine."

Adamma hesitated for a moment, then nodded, but inside, she was furious. She knew something was wrong, and as soon as Marigold left the house later that day, she picked up the phone and called Child Protective Services. She explained what she'd seen, her voice calm but urgent, telling them about the bruise on Marigold's face, the way she seemed afraid to speak.

But when she mentioned that Marigold's father was a cop, there was a long pause on the other end of the line. The CPS worker's tone shifted, more dismissive than before.

"We'll look into it," they said, though their voice lacked conviction. "But... with everything going on, it might take some time. We have a lot of cases right now."

Adamma's heart sank. She knew what that meant. They weren't going to look into it—not seriously. Not with Marigold's father being who he was. She thanked the person on the phone, though the words tasted bitter in her mouth, and hung up.

She stood there for a moment, her hands clenched at her sides, her mind racing. How could they ignore something like this? How could they turn a blind eye because of who Marigold's father was?

Adamma turned toward the window, her gaze drifting toward Marigold's house. The sinking feeling in her stomach returned, heavier than before.