Fates, Furies and Freckles(Watty Awards 2013)

εικοστή έβδομη

                                                             {Present Day}

                                                               Point of View:

                                       {{Dani (The normal human freckled teenage girl)}}

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I swing open the front door, and throw my keys on top of the shelf of the bookcase before waving two fingers goodbye to Amanda who came by to the school and picked me up. Orginally I was going to take the bus, but then I had to go back inside.

I leave my shoes next to the door, and toss my bag onto the dining room table before continuing into the kitchen which was my orginal destination. I can't be the only kid who goes straight for food after coming home from school, right?

I shove open the swinging door, and almost scream. 

"Dad?"

My dad is standing at the stove, stirring a pot of food. His back is turned towards me, but when I speak he turns around, still stirring. 

"Hey, sweetie!" He greets as if this is totally normal.

And I'm sure for most people it is normal and not all weird to see their father calmly stirring a pot of what appears to be noodles on a Monday afternoon. But to me, he might as well be standing on his head translating Arabic. 

I can't remember the last time was dad was home before midnight from work. 

I narrow my eyes towards him and set my phone on the counter, "Are you sick?" I ask, totally confused.

He shrugs, "Nope. I feel just fine!'

Okay, something's really wrong.

"Dad, why are you home?" I finally just ask, too freaked out to postpone this anymore.

He reaches over and turns on the radio to a soft rock station and I raise my eyebrows. This keeps getting weirder. "They sent me home."

I sigh and pull up a barstool to the other side of the stove. My dad turns around and throws me a water bottle and I catch it in mid-air. "I'm sorry, dad. What did they say?"

He carries the pot to the sink and pours it into a collander, steam rising up around his head. "They just said to go home and get some sleep. That I've been working too many hours this week."

I twist the cap off my water bottle and take a sip. "You've been working more hours than normal?"

I know immediately this was the wrong  thing to say. It's not that I don't register that he's gone, I just don't really notice anymore. It's normal for him to be gone now. Ever since my mom died, he threw himself into his work, and nothing makes him happier than working all day.

I don't think he likes being at home very much. At home was where she was. At home was where we lived as a family. This house hold memories, too many memories. I tried convincing him to move time and time again, but he never could do it.

He hated the memories, but he couldn't let them go either.

I've also often suspected he doesn't like to be around me much. I mean, I know he loves me. I'm his only daughter, only child. But I look like her. 

Sure, she had brown hair and brown eyes, but the first thing you noticed about her, and the thing you loved were her freckles. And in that sense, I look just like her.