Into the Velvet

Eleven Days After

"I want to talk. About yesterday."

"Dad, no."

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Be nice. I'm not too good at this stuff."

I gazed up at the ceiling and said nothing.

The bed gave a creak as he plodded down beside me. "I'm supposed to punish you when you do something wrong. I'm your dad. It's what I signed up for."

The covers were tucked in around me, all the way up to my ears. I couldn't stop shivering. I'd waited and waited all night for sleep to just... happen. It wouldn't. I'd stared into the nothingness, and it had stared back.

I said the words robotically, devoid of feeling. When sleep wouldn't come, I'd rehearsed which words I would say to my father instead. Compulsively. For hours on end.

"You're a great dad. I love you. What I said to you was inexcusable, and I'm sorry."

Then, to my surprise, my father snorted. Completely flipping the script. "That ain't true, Lula. I'm not a great dad, and you're not sorry. Never lie. Only speak the truth."

If he'd been trying to get my attention, it had worked. Slowly and reluctantly, I sat up and looked into his eyes for the first time in months. Trying to clear the fog in my mind. To focus.

In his hand was a glass of orange juice — he looked at it, and then back at me. Offering it with a ham-fisted gesture.

"Juice?"

I hesitated. Then our hands met in the middle; our shade of brown matching perfectly. My clumsy fingers almost slipped around the glass. "Okay. Thanks."

The first sip was sweet and cool. Filling me quickly. I inhaled several more gulps, and savoured the relief of having something in my system.

"If I was a great father," he emphasised, "I'd be doing more for you. Right? Cause I don't know what's been happening with you lately. But your meds have gone untouched for a long time. Two, three months, in fact."

The rim of the glass left my lips. I lowered it carefully, not making any sudden movements. Trying not to look guilty. Tasting metal in my mouth.

"Dad," I tried to say.

"I know what happens when you stop taking them." He ran a frustrated hand over the crown of his head. "You remember the first time you spun out? I do. I thought I'd lose you to what's in there." He leaned over and tapped my temple with his finger. "I worried you wouldn't be the same. Didn't know anything about mental disorders then. Not one thing. I had to learn so I could watch out for you."

I paused and frowned, looking down at my cup. Finding my reflection in the orange reservoir.

"You're not really sorry for what you said. You just want me to leave you alone. That's one of the signs." He gave me a sad, knowing smile. "The doctor warned me about that."

I repeated myself — sounding sharper this time, more severe. "Dad."

He shook his head. "See, you and Olly — you both need different things from me. I don't need to set you straight like I do with him. You never act out, never get in trouble. It makes my job easy. I take it for granted, sometimes. I don't always pay attention."

Pouring his heart out was embarrassing for him – he sounded awkward, out of practice. He made a grunting noise. Not quite looking at me, but at something past my ear. "You're too grown to be babied. Always have been. I just wonder if I've let you raise yourself for too long, y'know? And if something was going on... would you be comfortable telling me? Or do I just keep guessing in the dark? Cause I can only fix things the way I know how to — and I don't always know how to. Any of that make sense?"