Black Swan | Ghost & König [I] ✓

chapter 28

When you awoke, your head was pounding.

You groaned, trying to raise up from your position; your head was cushioned in the depression of two thighs, the middle of the back of your head unsupported from the dip in the person's thighs. You rose, hand flying to your head to rub it.

"Sh, sh, sh, ma douce fille. Tu as traversé beaucoup de choses," a voice said, hushed, calm and familiar. You abruptly felt very young and very small, and at this silver of unexpected consolation you felt, you laid your head back down with an exhale through your nose.

"Papa," you said, just above a whisper. You had felt much disdain when it came to your father for many years, despising him for ruining your future, hating him for taking ballet away from you, for moving you into Vienna — but now, it's like all of that was forgotten, forgiven. You were just grateful to see him safe, even if you may have acted like you didn't give a shit about his well-being before.

Your eyes drifted up to him, mind still hazy and clouded and sleepy from the soft rumbling of the car, the sound of tires rolling against smooth asphalt. You became aware of other cars honking, traffic booming, even talking as the car drove through the streets. You even heard the rhythmic click click click of its turn signal.

Your father was an old man, as you were not that very young yourself anymore. His hair was peppered with silver and faded black (your dark hair had originated from him), and he sported a scraggly beard. His face sheened with a cold sweat, his wrinkles settled into his sagged face.

But then you looked at his eyes, his eyes which had always been so dull and monotonous and calculated, a man who seldom displayed affection for his daughter or his wife, and you saw the concern gleaming in his iris, the misty reflection of your own tired face, you saw the love and the confusion and the joy and the sadness piled all into one.

His eyes welled with tears as he whispered: "Mon bébé, tu as tellement grandi." His thin, chapped bottom lip quivered. "Où êtes-vous allé?"

"Armée Autrichienne," you replied briefly, straining to speak through your migraine. "Puis les Forces Spéciales Allemandes."

It felt odd to speak to him like this in French. You felt forlorn, like in a dreamlike state. Your heart was being clawed and ripped apart as you observed his sadness; you had been hiding these feelings for so long, your love and care for your father. You had forced your mind to forget about him and your mother, your past, and focused strictly on finding Kilgore. Now, he was here, right after he was held in captivity for God-knows-how-long, and you wanted nothing more to embrace him and tell him how sorry you were for being such an awful child your entire life.

"Pourquoi?" was all that he asked.

You raised a finger to Kilgore in the front seat, merely his silhouette visible in the passenger. Ghost was in the driver's seat, and when you peered out the windshield, you realized that you were on the same highway you had taken many times before to get to your home. Home.

"Je devais le trouver lui," you confessed. "Kilgore."

"Ce garçon..." he said quietly, a twinge of anger behind his voice. "...tu as quitté ta famille et rejoint l'armée pour lui?"

"J'aime lui," you pleaded with your father, and it was the first time you had ever meant something like this. Love. You loved Kilgore. You knew this to be true. Your feelings for Simon didn't matter for the moment; you've loved Kilgore since you were a child, and you could run away from that any longer.

Your father said nothing, only raising his head to look out the window. His expression relaxed, as if accepting it. He knew Kilgore, he had known him for a very long. Every time you would run away, every time you would act out, every single speck of rebellion you did... Your father knew it was because of him. For what he did. For moving you away from your future. And you just so happened to fall in love with this boy along the way, and there is nothing he could do about that.