Life, Love & The Forbidden

Realisation

It had just begun to get dark when Sara turned her key in the lock silently. The heavy panel door opened effortlessly and she clicked it shut behind her. She stood, her back pressed against the front door, with her hands resting behind her back, fingers splayed across the wood. Her body froze when she was startled by a noise. Her breath hitched and her body flushed with fear before she realised it was the sounding of the hour on her father's old grandfather clock in the marble lobby.

Sara gave herself a grin and rested a shaky hand to her chest. "Relax," she told herself with a whisper. This time she was going to make sure the maid from hell didn't know she was late home. She pushed herself from the door and tip toed across the black and white chequered flooring, her converse rubbing with a squeak. Sara froze, a grimace on her face as she bent over to untie her laces and remove the offending garments.

"Where have you been?" A voice called from the lounge. Sara spun to face the room; the only room in the house where by if you were sneaking in you'd get caught. The lights were out, the room only illuminated by the flicker of the fire. Real logs crackled and sparks flew as the wood cracked and burned on the open place. A large, deep blue high back armchair sat facing the fire, the back of it towards Sara. It had finely crafted mahogany legs and trim and although Sara couldn't see him, she knew her father was sitting there.

"Daddy," she breathed, shocked by his presence. "Hi," she said feeling watched and violated. A heavy arm moved to rest on the arm of the chair, lightly tanned skin exposed by a messily rolled up sleeve. Frank's hand titled in the light and Sara could see a superiorly carved glass with a brown liquid rolling around it in.

"Where have you been?" he repeated, moving the glass to his lips and drinking half the contents with a faked sigh of content. Frank had never been a big drinker and the whiskey burned as it flowed down his throat, settling in a hot heap inside his stomach. His arm fell back down, whiskey laden glass in hand, and rested on the arm once more.

"At school. Studying with Janet," Sara told him confidently. Frank had never met Janet but had met her parents at a fundraiser not that long ago. They were wealthy like the Tancredi's but enjoyed flaunting it much more. Sara didn't actually like Janet, in fact she found her selfish and conceited, but she made for a good alibi.

Her father let out a masculine giggle, his glass shaking and the whiskey sloshing up the sides. He raised the glass to his lips once again and finished the drink with another sigh of disgust. Placing the glass upon the table next to him, he poured another. Sara had never known her father to drink whiskey before. He had always said it was for a severe occasion.

"Dad, are you ok?" she queried taking a few paces towards the back of the chair. Frank ran his hand over his face and then urged his aged knees to lift his tired body to its feet. He stood to the side of the fireplace, one arm resting on the surround while he pressed the glass in the other to his waistline.

He turned his head and his tired eyes meet hers. "You're a bad liar Sara," he told her before resuming his stare into the fire. Sara took another step forward and crossed the threshold under the big white archway into the lounge. Her shoes stopped squeaking on the stone as her feet met the old, creaking wooden flooring. "Stay there," he commanded her with a wave of his whiskey glass.

Sara halted, her face wrinkling with question and confusion. It was true; she was a bad liar. She had been with Michael and her father could smell it a mile off. He turned his head to her again, dragging the heavy bulk sideways with effort. "You were with him," he started, taking a swig of his drink.

"I..." Sara began in protest but he cut her off.

"Dammit Sara don't lie to me!" he bellowed into the dark room. Sara squeezed her eyes shut and she jumped back a pace. Her father was scary when he was angry but she had no idea why he was so angry that she was happy. Frank saw her wide-eyed expression and sighed, turning from her again and rubbing his temple with a rough hand.

"I'm sorry," Sara whispered, her eyes burning with tears. Her heart beat in her chest like a tribe's drum echoing in the night. It vibrated through her entire being, sending adrenaline rushing through her veins. Her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes dilated, her hazel orbs resembling some kind of dirty swimming pool. She sniffed, wiping her eyes quickly with her sleeve. It smelt like Michael and she lingered on the scent before staring back at her father. "I'm sorry," she repeated, her tone angry and livid.

Frank didn't look at her. Instead he just stood, staring into the flames than danced before him, warming his face. The flames represented his daughter, full of life and zest until a key element was removed and she would fade away. Frank pushed himself from the wall, taking a staggered step towards Sara who dropped her gaze from his.

"I don't want you seeing him," he spat through ground teeth at her. His vision was slightly blurry and his speech slurred, excess saliva lurking in the corner of his mouth.

"Dad, I am sixteen years old. Nearly seventeen," she told him in a shaky but stern voice. He swung his wobbly head towards her and narrowed her eyes.

"Have you slept with him?" he choked the words out not thinking clearly in his worsening state. Sara stared at him, mouth opened with shock and horror.

"Is this what this is about?" she twitched her head as she laughed out her reply sarcastically. Frank just took another swig of his burnt orange liquid looking at her with disgust. "No dad, I haven't slept with him," she retorted. "Just because I am young doesn't make me stupid."

Frank stared at her, the foul smell of the whiskey filling his nostrils on every breath he exhaled. At that moment he was proud of Sara. Proud to call Sara his daughter, proud to have raised her single handed and proud she turned out ok. More than ok. She hadn't turned out like him and he was proud of it. Even though he felt like taking her in his arms and letting her finally live her life, he couldn't let her go just yet.

"Michael cares for me dad, he would never hurt me," her words shook him from his thoughts. His brows pulled together and he cocked his head at her, his grip tightening around the glass in his hand.

"Michael?" he said in a low grumble, his gaze dropping to the floor. "The guy from the accident?" he asked astounded by the man's sheer audacity after everything he did to save his bank balance that day. Frank's blood boiled beneath his skin as Sara shifted nervously.

Sara swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly full of saliva and her stomach churning its contents like a choppy sea, making her feel nauseous. Sara's silence further angered her father who stared at her intensely, taking in her posture and willingness to avoid his stare. "It is him, isn't it?" he chuckled sadistically; remembering the way Michael had looked at his daughter, his hungry eyes raping her virginal body in his presence. "Unbelievable!" he roared, spinning and sending his glass into the fire.

The sound of glass smashing made Sara gasp and her hand shot up to cover her mouth. It sounded like icicles swaying in the wind as his connected with the stone fireplace. The whiskey spilled from its shattered shell and spilled into the open flames, fuelling the rage that burned there. Frank snorted like an angry bull as he waved a stiff finger at Sara.

"If you ever go near him again..." he growled, sucking in a ragged breath and clenching his hands, his fingernails digging into his palms. Sara couldn't listen to his onslaught anymore and she twisted on the dusty floor boards and raced through the wide lobby and up the cold marble stairs. Frank gave chase, halting at the base of the stairs. "I mean it young lady!" he called after her as Sara slammed her door closed.

She sunk against the door as her cries escaped her. Hugging her knees to her chest she rocked back and forth on her thick, creamy carpet and grizzled with her forehead on her knees. If Sara didn't have her father in this world she had no one but the man she loved. Sara quickly reached behind her and twisted the lock on her door, dived into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone.

The phone pressed to her ear as her hand shook and she struggled to regain her composure. "Hello?" the voice on the other end questioned, raising the tone at the end of the word.

"Michael," she burst into tears at the sound of his voice and poured her sorrow into the rest of her words.