Femme Fatale

This Doesn't Feel Like Home Anymore

It was 1921. 19-year-old Carmen turned the car off, and slid her key out of the ignition. A deep sigh left her lips as she closed her eyes, mentally preparing herself for what was about to come. Coming home to her father drunk and not even knowing where he was half the time was pretty much a daily affair. It was a different thing every day with him. One day, he would accuse her of something that she had absolutely nothing to do with. Or the next day, he wouldn't even make a lick of sense. His girlfriend had finally gotten fed up with the poor way he treated her and left. Last she heard, she had fled to Italy because she couldn't even stand being in the same country as him. Carmen opened the front door to the house, which wasn't locked like it typically was. She slowly stepped inside, and shut the door behind her. As soon as the door made a click, her father who was on the couch with a glass of whiskey in his hand turned his head to face her. "Where have you been?" He grumbled, standing up from his seat. "I've been at university, where else would I be?" She questioned, raising a brow in confusion.

She tried to keep the fact in her head that he had been drinking, that he had no comprehension of what he had been saying. But then again, people always said that when intoxicated, the truth tends to come out. "You liar! You're a liar. Just like your mother. Then you went and killed her." Ouch. That definitely struck a nerve. Was that really what he thought of her? Was he really blaming her for her mother dying? Her mother was a touchy subject for Carmen. The fact that her mother died in childbirth had always haunted her. When she was younger, she always used to hear the other children at school talk about their parents and how their mothers spent time with them. Carmen was unfortunate to not have experienced such things.

"Don't you dare blame me for that. That wasn't my fault. You know I wish Mother were here every day." Carmen began to raise her voice a bit, and shot her father a glare, something that she rarely did. She only did that if she was extremely angry, which she was. "Raise your voice at me again and I'll--" "What? You'll what? You'll hurt me?" She cut him off, a laugh following her words. "You want to know something? I loathe you. Not a fiber in my body feels even a tiny bit of love for you. You're a poor excuse for a father. I'm leaving tonight. I'm dropping out of university. I'm getting far away from you, and you're going to wish I had stayed." Carmen remarked, her voice laced with fury. Her lips curled into that smile of hers, the smile that said, 'I don't care about you and never will. I hope you suffer.' Before he could say a word, she walked off to her bedroom and grabbed herself a large suitcase from the luggage set she kept in the bottom of her closet. She hurriedly tossed various items into the luggage. Clothing, shoes, among other things. Tears began to pool in her eyes. A lone tear streamed down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away. No. She couldn't cry. She wouldn't let herself cry. She needed to be strong. Crying, in her opinion, made her weak. Weak was not what she was. She could faintly hear her father drunkenly grumble to himself. She wasn't able to tell what he was saying, nor did she really care.

Her eyes flickered to her bedside table. It was a small map of Chicago. This was it. This was her chance to leave this place behind and go to where she fantasized about for years. She was going to be free. She picked up the map and studied it carefully, her full lips curling into a smile. She thought more about what she said to her father. 'You're going to wish I had stayed.' No. He'd wish she wouldn't come back. Carmen had no intention of that ever happening. It seemed as if everyone was getting what they wanted.