Vendetta

Chapter 6: Dear

Aella
Mid-October
~~~~

Later that night, I lay in my bed. I was hardly able to sleep, physically I was tired and ready for my body to shut down, mentally, I was running out of energy.

I rolled over under my covers, facing my window. I stare out into the night. City lights were bright, and the streets bustling with night owls.

Down the hall, my mother and father were sound asleep, and I listened to the quietness of our house that had once been a happy home.

"Maybe I'll go for a walk, tonight..." I suggested to myself. I slipped out of bed and made my way over to my closet, where I instinctively pulled out a pair of jeans and my favorite hoodie. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and grabbed some shoes, my keys, and my phone. I turned off my light and closed my door quietly. I tip-toed down the hall.

"Where are you going?" I nearly died right then and there. I whipped around, my mouth open in surprise. My heart beating rapidly in my chest.

There stood my father, in all his stone-cold coolness. He was a very stern-looking man, and hardly ever showed any emotion besides that brooding anger. Tonight instead of being clad in one of his usual crisp and tidy suits, he wore a pair of sweats and a white Tee.

I sighed. "I need to clear my head. I'm stressing out." And when fall break was over, I'd be going through a lot more stress than this. Even though I'd spent most of the break in the house, only going out once to the Bistro, I was still feeling lost in life. My shoulders slouched with the heaviness of my brother's death. I missed him more and more as time passed.

My dad stared at me for a moment. "Come with me," He leads me down the hall to the stairs that led to the first-floor balcony where the piano was. I frowned. He opened the balcony door and took a seat on the smooth, dark mahogany bench of the piano. He placed his fingers on the keys and pressed a few. The way the balcony was set up it wasn't completely out and open to the seasons. The balcony above us was my brother's room-He had damn near killed me for it- and it reached out over the one we were on now, making sort of a ceiling. My dad had rolling glass doors put on the edges so you could close off the open space. 

I smiled a little. He patted the seat beside him, I slid in next to him, placing my phone and keys on my lap and my shoes bedside my feet on the cool cement floor. Slowly, my father began a song I knew very well. One that my brother played often as a way to clear his head. It was a slow song written in the season when snow dusted and powdered treetops and made your fingertips turn pink and shrivel. Even though it was chilly, the sweater I wore and the music warmed me up.

His fingers danced over the keys with an ease that only a seasoned pianist can manage. His forever-tense shoulders relaxed and he closed his eyes. The constant frown that was pressed between his brows seemed to dissipate and he almost seemed at ease. I watched all of this unfold like a blooming rose and it warmed my heart to see him like this. He played smoothly and surely.

The actual music didn't bring back the memory, but the way my father played reminded me of my brother.

Growing up Axel and I had taken too many lessons. We learned how to play both the piano and the violin but he took more of a liking to the piano and continued his lessons until he could no longer be taught, whereas I just played the violin and only went to my piano lessons if necessary.

Axel played on nights like this. Nights when he couldn't sleep and his mind was restless. Axel and my father despite their differences were very much alike in many ways. They both kept most of their feelings, thoughts, and fears to themselves. I watched my father play, and the way his shoulders hunched showed me how pained he was.

I had walked in from school, tossing my keys on the long glass table in the hall and dropping my book bag by the door. Soft piano notes floated down the hall, catching my attention. I shuffled down the hall. I had expected to be him alone. Axel had football practice and I was off from track and writing club today. I reached the edge of the hall that broke off into the open floor plan of the kitchen and living room. Ahead of me, light was streaming in from the windows and the balcony where my brother sat facing the city. I couldn't see his hands but I heard the music they made. I quietly made my way to the balcony doors and leaned on the frame. It was a nice day. Sunny and warm.

Abruptly the song stopped, snapping me out of my memory. I focused my attention from my father's hands to his face.

In all my 17 years of living, not once had I seen my father cry. He didn't bawl or yell out in pain. But his shoulders shook and his face contorted into such a pained and raw expression that it hurt my very soul.

His breath hitches and he hiccuped as he slouched and buried his face in his hands. I reached out to him but hesitated. I've never had to comfort my father. I pushed my unease aside and engulfed him in a hug. He wrapped his arm around me and I leaned into his side, pressing my cheek to his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, chéri," He mumbled, using the old nickname he called me when I was younger. He shook his head, his chin rubbing against my scalp. "I'm sorry," He squeezes me tighter. Almost too tight.

"It's not your fault..." I murmured. "Someone evil did this and it's not your fault, Dad,"

"Chéri, I should've been there..." His words faded off into the distance quietly, like a tendril of smoke from the butt of a cigar, but not unnoticed. I flinched. Why wasn't he? , I asked myself, frowning.

Why wasn't I?
My frown deepened.

I caught myself. No.

It wasn't our fault. No one could've been there on time.
"Dad..." I said quietly. My father had lost a child. His son. His first. The loss he felt was so much more different than mine. The person he'd created with my mother was gone forever and what made it worse was he blamed himself. I leaned away and looked up at him, my brows furrowed in sadness. I begged him with my eyes, to be honest, to tell me-tell me how he felt. Share how sad he was. For a moment he looked vulnerable, lost, and hurt. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. When he pulled away, he was the same man he was before, cool, collected, and put together. He was hard as stone and unmovable.

His dark eyes hardened. He masked and covered all previous emotions. He wiped his hand over his face, erasing his tears and the evidence of them being there, and his features hardened even more. You wouldn't have even known he was just crying a few moments ago. His red eyes were the only giveaway.

"I'm going to find out who did this to him," He stood from his seat and moved towards the door, stopping for a moment to address me over his shoulder. "I will rip the world apart brick by brick if I must." He opened the balcony door and stepped inside, leaving me with a newfound type of respect for my father. We were, for once, in a long time, on the same page.

War was coming.

My father was a multi-million C.E.O. but he also led a life of deceit, lies, and darkness. That life has given us not only happiness and wealth but has also familiarized us with grief and loss. That was the price we had to pay. Which we understood. 

I looked over the balcony and out towards the skyline. 

The city was alive and thriving.

***

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