The Bus Stop

The Hamartia

A/N: Song attached is Wasting My Young Years, by London Grammar.

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Like most people, Clara Anderson had a worst day. It was an infamous load of hours that resulted in an irrevocable change within her family. It was the day when Clara discovered the fatal flaw her father held, the inconspicuous hamartia.  And like a lot of people, her worst day was infamously remarkable.

The discovery of her worst day began in the late afternoon of Clara's seventh birthday. Her father had promised her beforehand that he would be there for her as she cut into her chocolate flavored cake but as the hours ticked by, his presence remained absent. Clara had soon lost hope after many moments sitting on the staircase, peering out at the front door before her mother told her it was time to sleep. Clara Anderson didn't want to sleep, she wanted her dad to come home.

As a few hours soon travelled by—consisting of the pale girl lying awake in her bed— she was afraid her father would never come home, but on the other hand, she was even more scared he would. Clara loved her dad, but she hated the man he became when intoxicated with alcohol and more often than not, she felt uneasy around him.

After a few more minutes of lying awake, the girl finally heard the front door creep open. By now it had to be way past eleven at night and Clara knew that as a result, the rest of the family would most likely be sleeping. One of the most common questions Clara would ask herself on nights like tonight was this; if life was made for the living, then why did she continue to feel like dying?

Being the curious and rather stubborn, seven year old she was, Clara decided to confront her father at his poor attempt to sneak in quietly. Slowly pulling the covers off of her body, she quickly swung her legs over the bed until they reached the floor. As Clara Anderson made her way cautiously down the long set of stairs, she saw her father standing by the kitchen table as he gazed upon her uneaten birthday cake.

"Dad?" She hesitantly asked, approaching the man with tired eyes. At the sound of her voice, Mr Anderson hastily snapped his head up to face his daughter, a remorseful look covering his features.

Patrick Anderson had always loved his kids, he just had a horrid way of showing it. When most would shower their children with love and affection, he would make preventable mistakes and numbly apologize for them with new toys and clothes. Clara's father was smart, but he hadn't the single idea on how to be a good parent.

"I didn't break my promise, Clara, it's still your birthday." Even with the faint sound of the night traffic, the slur in Mr Anderson's voice was as prominent as the moon. As Clara stood in the dark, narrow hallway of her house, she wondered where her father had been. He was still dressed in his work uniform pants, although the Pine Cove Police logo shirt had been replaced by a white t-shirt.

"Where have you been, dad?" Clara asked her father, hating how small her voice sounded.

The man frowned, his t-shirt covering the brown belt that was always placed around his waist. Patrick Anderson looked confused, as if perhaps he couldn't remember where he had spent his daughter's birthday. And then—just like that—the man showed a sudden expression of a growing, newfound anger.

"You don't get to ask me questions, Clara, it's none of your damn business." His bitter tone could of been heard from miles away. Clara didn't know whether to be frightened by his response or utterly intrigued by his sudden change of persona. It was almost as if the man had a second personality when intoxicated with alcohol, one Clara held no tolerance for.