Paper and Pen

Chapter 1

I struggle to be creative. I struggle to think outside the box. I struggle to be independent. Blame does not shadow me for this, I have been reminded time and time again, yet all I can do is stare at the blank piece of paper in front of me. I want to write something to him, just a simple 'hello' but my brain cannot picture the letters. His name echoes in my head, but the ink from the pen doesn't flow when I write it down, it simply sticks to the inside of the plastic like it is clinging on to the last shred of 'hope' it can fathom.

Hope isn't real though, of course.

When talking to me, people seem on edge. They tread around egg shells and avoid my piercing gaze when they walk beside me. I believe it is for what my father has done, as if it will be passed down through genetics like a disorder until it infects everyone related to me - starting with me. After what he did to my family, I cannot scowl, I cannot squint until they run, because I would stare too. I would stare at the broken family who have to push their sister around and tell her what to do, not because she is young and naive, but because she is broken; a toy disregarded on the shelf by the person she loved most. Dad. 

I feel like I'm being dramatic in some respects, she knows where she is and how to live her life - to a certain extent. Of course, it isn't like a childhood movie where each person gets their individual happy ending after the mist of a tragedy passes by, but rather the mist is alive and suffocates people enough to make them spent the entirety of their remaining life wondering why they deserved that torturous moment; the entirety of their life circling around one particular person who needs the most help. 

I click the pen in my fingers and the ink filled tip sinks back into the plastic. I place the pen on the paper - still blank - and stare at it. How am I meant to write to someone who has caused all of this, someone who has broken my family?

The only light in my den is the dim lamp beside me, just bright enough to light up most of the room, yet it leaves one dark corner completely untouched; light cannot reach out to every bit of darkness in life. I transformed the shed my father put together for my mum into my own personal hide out, and it has become one of the places I go daily to vent to myself without facing my sister, or anyone else for that matter. I spend most of my time contemplating what to write to him, if I could, and what the outcome would be. I do my homework in here - when I actually do my homework - and sometimes I make myself lunch or dinner and hide away to eat it so I can avoid the awkward family silences and conversations across the dining room table. Everything related to this house makes me sick; the things that I should love have this effect too.

My heart trembles in my chest at the mention of that day, mourning it over and over again, replaying it every day until it hurts. I physically feel the pain over and over again.

If my mum found out I had been trying to write to my father, I feel she would cry, or give herself the responsibility to stop it. She wouldn't understand why I need answers, as far as she's concerned he is dead. But he is very much alive. In my head, he occupies my thoughts most, alongside my sister. His eyes are burnt into all of my memories and his face pops up in all situations, even if they have no relevance to him. My brain is fascinated by what he did, it is trying to fathom why he would attempt something so cruel, so manipulative, so destructive.

I tear the blank piece of paper in half and throw it into the bin, covering up 10 unwritten, destroyed letters that were once another opportunity for answers. Placing the pen back in the pot, I tuck the chair underneath the blue wooden desk and listen as it creaks against the frail floorboards beneath me - they remind me of how I feel. How destroyed I feel after lessons of people staring at me, whispering, contemplating. Hours of silent questions and glares. Days of rumours and a lifetime of sadness. I'm only 16, life should not be this hard. I should not have this responsibility, this torn down foundation of trust. 

I walk up the moonlit garden and open the backdoor to the house. Upon shutting it, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, lingering at the bottom as if questioning whether to enter or not, before I hear them touch the floor.

"Sweetheart, have you been outside in the cold again?"

I huff and she remains still, blocking my exit from the kitchen. Her eyes look over me, at my home style clothing and my hair tied up in a bun. I can almost hear her thoughts; what example is she setting Layle? 

"Sandra called again" she continues, even though I struggle to remember my reply to her last question, "she wants you to go in tomorrow instead of next week."

Sandra is my therapist. It wouldn't have been long before I had to introduce her. She has been spending the last year trying to get me to open up about the actions of my father and how they made me feel; how they still make me feel. Her efforts are respected by my mum, who struggles to talk to me more than anyone, rather than myself - I only go so that I can escape the house for as long as possible. 

She talks to me about Layle and the accident. She talks about my mum. However, she mainly talks about my father and his attitude towards me. His attitude towards all of us, really. She asks if I saw any warnings to what happened, any signs, or whether I let it happen. Whether I was scared, afraid, tricked. She asks about how my mum treats me now, to which I usually reply with; obviously differently, I was an accomplice and it was my fault.

Then she usually tells me that I was young and naive and wasn't aware of what he was doing, and I once again argue that I could have stopped it. 

Therapy in a nutshell. 

See, when you're a child and you face tragedy, the blame is diverted from you to the person who should have taken more responsibility in the eyes of the law, which is why my father went down rather than the two of us together. It is why my father is alone while I am allowed to walk to streets, and it is why people think I have a genetic condition caught from my father. A psychopathic one, presumably. 15 year old me had a choice, there is always a choice in these situations. It is televised constantly; people blaming themselves for loved ones deaths, saying they should have recognised the signs, followed by interviews reciting the same speech about how they could have never seen it coming, especially from someone who is meant to take care of you. 

Someone who you're meant to trust. 

"That's great!" I reply sarcastically, more so than was necessary, "maybe we could all go together, a family day out, I'll bring a picnic and we can sit around and discuss why dad is an arsehole and I have to go to therapy because of Layle."

"Charlotte! HE HURT YOU TOO!" 

It's true. 

He did hurt me, more than anyone could imagine. I took the fall for Layle sometimes, but I block it out. I hide it. I don't want to see the real me behind the facade, so I blame others. I want to write to him. 

I tell her that Layle had it worse and she sighed, I could feel the effort she had slip away once again. 

"P-please s-s-stop" 

I turn my head. Layle. In the doorway. Signing her hands towards me, desperate to speak. She had tears in her eyes, from what I could tell. She couldn't hear herself, but I could hear her and see her pleading. My heart broke in two as I looked at her. How much he hurt her, destroyed her body. The burns on her arms and legs - her face. Most of it covered. The hearing aids. The stitches. The bruising. 

"Layl-"

"D-d-addy h-hurt yo-u too" she said with determination, but I followed her hands to guide me through the rest. 

Daddy did not love me, he did not love us, but you are allowed to be sad. Your eyes are allowed to water.

Both mum and I turn to her and smile. I look at her to apologise, and then back to Layle, who was smiling more than she was previously.

I walk passed, making sure to mess up her hair as I always do, and hear her footsteps trail off to the living room once more. As I walk up the stairs, my eyes well up, but I do not let anyone see. I should not cry over her. She is as happy as she can be. She hears so much yet she is deaf. She feels vibrations and turns them into music in her mind. She feels sounds. She sees herself in the mirror and she still feels she is beautiful. 

As I enter my room, I sit by my desk. 

Tomorrow, I tell myself, I am going to write to dad.