in which she swims to forget all the pain, but he sees it all because dallas edlen is not ok and, having loved her for years, seeing that was no task.
ONE BREATH
MINIMINTER
SIDEMEN
DEATHLIES 2016
[COMPLETED]
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TWENTY EIGHT d a l l a s
She waited downstairs for fifteen minutes, five after she'd heard the shower go off, before she stood up and took her cup to the sink and washed it out.
"It was lovely to chat to you," Dallas says to Simon's Mum as she sets the cup down on the side. "But I really do need to talk to Simon. Do you mind if I run up to see him?" She asks, gesturing to the door with her thumb, her silver ring glinting.
"No, no, not at all, dear. Go ahead, I'm sure he's done by now," She replies with a wave of her hand and a smile that made Dallas know for sure that she knew what was between her and Simon.
She knew it was more than friends, no matter how much Simon tried to convince her after Dallas had left after the meal three weeks ago. She'd seen it all.
"Thank you," Dallas says. "And if I don't see you before I leave, it was lovely to see you again."
"You too, you're always welcome here."
"I'll, um," Dallas's throat tightens and her voice is a mumble. "I'll remember that, thank you." And honestly she was truly grateful for the offer, even if it was common politeness, because she was everything Dallas had never had in her life.
Only now was she realising the absence in her life, in her soul, the shape of a mother figure. It was not a hole that could be simply filled by a father figure or a lover.
A mother's love was utterly irreplaceable, it choked her up to think that because she didn't know how long days like this would last. Days where the wound didn't feel so raw or open; where it was stitched up by tender touches, warm smiles and avid listening.
She feared home. She feared the white walls of her bedroom. Cold, lonely. She feared the hands that brought the physical pain, the lips that brought the verbal lashes. The stench of the alcohol on the red dresses and the scream of a mother with no love for her own daughter.
She feared the stitches being torn and shredded from her skin, the oozing blood and the complete and furious pain, physically and mentally. Her body ached with bruises and scars, her mind rung with agony.
As she reaches the top of the stairs, she has to steady herself in fear of falling backwards and tumbling to her death because, as much as Dallas hated a lot of things, she did not resent her life. In fact, she would do anything not to die young and wasted.
She wanted to grow old. She wanted to raise children of her own. Three of them, two boys and a little baby girl. All three of them she would cherish and adore, even when they didn't want her to because they did not want the embarrassment because ever fibre of her rebelled against growing into her mother's shoes.
Determination product of absence; rebellion fuelled by scars.
Dallas remembered the halls of this house well. Too many summer days were spent running through them, chasing after Simon or even her own brother, Adam. The three of them would laugh together, laughing until their ribs ached an their faces hurt.
