Daughter of a Dixon ✔️

31: Words Unspoken

I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep; I just laid in my cot, drowning in my own thoughts and feelings of anger and sorrow. I didn't want to talk to anyone, I didn't want to do anything, I just wanted to be left alone. I was exhausted, I was enraged, and I was hurt, an unbelievably dangerous combination.

But, to my dismay, it wasn't long before I heard a soft, hesitant knocking on the wall outside my cell. I didn't even have to look to know who was knocking; I could recognize my dad's scent anywhere. It was a mixture of soil, pine trees, and just the outdoors in general.

"I said I didn't wanna talk to you, Dad," I told him, unmoving from my position on the cot.

"... I know. And ya don't have to... Ya just have to listen."

I exhaled, frustrated, and turned on my back to face my dad. "Why? What can you say that will make this better, Dad? Because, you and I both know there's nothing you can say or do that will change the fact that you left me. And even though you came back in the end... you still left."

I watched as his eyes wandered away from me and towards the ground. His shoulders rose and fell in a quiet breath before he spoke again. "Yeah... I know."

"Then why are we still talking about it?" I asked quietly, shrugging my shoulders.

He didn't respond right away, he just continued to stare at the ground as if that would provide all the answers. I thought the conversation was over, that we'd just leave the event alone and try to continue on as normal, but I was surprisingly wrong.

I narrowed my eyes as he carefully stepped into my cell, still gazing at the floor. He came over to the side of my bed, and gently picked up both my legs, moving my feet to the floor so he could sit beside me.

I reluctantly moved into a sitting position as he took a place beside me, sitting on the very edge of the bed. He continued looking down for a few more seconds before he shifted his gaze to me, and for some reason, laid a hand on my left wrist. I snapped my eyes over to him, unsure of what he was doing.

He was unusually gentle as he lifted my wrist from my lap, and placed it in between both his hands. As he softly rolled up the edges of my flannel shirt, I began to realize what he was doing.

He rolled up my shirt to about my elbow, and then stopped and just stared at my exposed wrist.

My exposed scars.

There were unorganized markings all up and down my inner forearm; I'd had them for so long, I didn't even remember where they came from.

"The night you got these... that was the worst night of ma life," Dad said quietly, still gazing down at the faded marks. There was a world of hurt in his eyes as I looked at him, and my anger slowly began to fade away into empathy. I was still pretty upset nonetheless, not to mention feeling a little defensive with my scars on display.

"You have scars, too," I snipped back a bit too harshly.

Dad paused, went still for a few moments. Then he sighed, a long, slow breath.

"I know I do," was all he said in reply. I knew better than to press that subject any further, and in looking for something else to say, my eyes drifted back to my wrists and forearms.