Deceiving Love

The Fortunate Blackwood

"I know what you are going through, I am here for you."

This is not true, at least not anymore. 

People can be very deceiving, especially when they appear to be kind and to be compassionate in moments you need them to be. I used to think after father's death that I was alone in the world, he was my everything-- everything. Neighbors, family friends, friends of friends and strangers, all attempted to appear kind and compassionate when they spoke that phrase. But it's empty, just like I have been for the past 12 years, a hole so empty that it can be deep with no bottom to reach.

You may be confused by now, I don't blame you. I have been trying to put the pieces to the puzzle myself for years but gave up once I saw no result. For years I have been searching for clues and evidence to my father's death. Only to conclude that it was not my father's death. I was 18 when I found out that my father may still be alive and that the burned body found at the crime scene was that of a stranger, unrecognizable due to the damage of the burn. According to the news, that I have collected over the years, the body had been fully burned except for the missing left hand and wrist. My father used to have a distinct black-outlined tattoo of a sun with wavy rays on his left wrist, making it impossible to truly conclude that the victim of the burning was indeed my father. The police confirmed the likely cause of death to be intended arson, however,  the culprit was never found--- and neither was my father. 

I was too young and they did not allow me to see the body, my aunt had to identify the burned victim found in our house. Her face described the horrors she saw whenever people would speak of the supposed nature of his death at the funeral. Her gaze would drift off, when spoken to and reminded of her brother, face spark with a sadness and anguish. Maybe she also did not believe he died or perhaps she never wanted to believe he did--like me. But one things is certain, no one deserves to have seen their loved one burned to crisps.

Deep down, I knew that it was not my father whom they had found that night. It may be seen as madness to some, or perhaps inability to let go of the past, but deep down I knew it. On nights my father was worried, he would take me on late night drives to calm his mind he used to say I was his safe haven and that if anything were to happen to him, he had me. He would emphasize that I was more important to him than I could imagine and that I would know if anything were to happen to him, he would tell me but he never did. I never truly understood what he meant back then with "he would tell me" because how can someone predict or know something bad would happen? But now I do. If anything were to happen to him, he would have known. 

His name was John Blackwood, but I would always call him pa. He was the best father anyone could ask for, and I have always referred to him as such. He cared for my mother and me, so much that he retired young to give attention to me a few years later when she passed away. Fortunately, my father inherited from his great-grandfather a good fortune. So money was not the issue.

Given that the arson was intended to kill my father, the true motive was inconclusive, it was speculated that it was due to money since my father was a well known man for his reputation. Since we had quite a good amount, we were known in our town, which is why my father's death was widespread in the news. People knew my father as a kind man who loved our family dearly, which is why every time I would walk by in the streets I would hear them speak:

"Such a tragedy, they were so loving with each other makes it hard to believe such an atrocity could ever happen to the fortunate Blackwoods. I feel sorry for their daughter, Joe and Elena will always be remembered."

The fortunate Blackwoods.

It sounds ironic to me every time I heard them say it. But I have ignored the gossip and the stares and the condolences. I have grown and moved from that town with my aunt once she took custody of me right after the incident. Since then, my father's attempted murder has always been a mystery to me.

It took a few months to get settled with the moving and the paperwork for my custody. My aunt has been very caring just like my father, but she wasn't always home because her job as a bank assistant demanded a lot of her time. In times of loneliness, I would find myself making a board on my room's wall with pictures, old newspapers and any other evidence I had acquired over the years to figure out what had happened on that night when he was almost murdered. As much as I wanted to find who was behind all of this, I wanted to understand why the murderer was after my father. I was pretty sure my father was alive since the burned victim was not conclusive to be my father and only some of his blood was found on the living room's carpet. This is one reason to why I have never told anyone else,  no one would believe me. My father was rich but he was loved by everyone I knew, it was hard to know his enemies and to pinpoint the culprit. 

On that night, the cops found a burned body inside my house, but they assumed that a murder took place due to the forced entry and suspected gas leak. They did find the blood of my father, proven by DNA testing, along with broken objects and a gun left on the living room's carpet. The investigation only concluded that it was my father due to the blood found at the scene. However, the case went cold. After many dead ends, the investigation was left unsolved and placed in the archives. Since then, I have been trying to look for my father on my own, in hopes that one day I may find him, or that he finds me. For these reasons, I have never believed that my father died on that night; I knew he was alive somewhere. I have always felt broken because I was not able to see him ever again.

My aunt initially thought it was a waste of time to dig the past and was better to move forward. But I could never just let it go, I have never been the typical teenager with posters of my favorite singers or models, I didn't have many friends. My best friend, Snow is a beautiful husky with grey light eyes that would look like snowflakes, hence his name. I would usually confide myself in teen romance novels and Victorian romance books as well because I have always wanted to find true love like my parents did. Apart from that, I lived a pretty normal life I had just recently graduated from high school and started working as a waitress at Pizza Hut. But little did I know that it was that winter when everything changed when I received a letter on my 18th birthday. And this is where my story truly begins.

January 21th, 2017