Poison & Puzzles

My Father's Daughter

I woke up screaming again. I was awake and sitting up by the time I heard the feet pounding up the stairs to my room. I could tell it was only one set of footsteps, but my hammering heart still held out hope that maybe he would come this time. No. The sounds on the stairs would be farther apart. Da had longer legs. Papa then. That was alright. "Emmalynn?" He was already calling for me.

My Papa used to be a soldier. An army medic, he reminded me often not to make it sound like it was 'more than it was'. I knew he was burying something more though. He understood about my nightmares. He knew they weren't just childish things that needed to be put behind me. He got them too, maybe not the same as mine, but sometimes he still woke up shaking and crying out for names I didn't recognize. Some nights we'd both have them, and accidentally meet downstairs. He'd make me a cuppa and we'd sit in silent understanding. Not tonight. Tonight it hurt.

"My chest. It. Hurts." I managed through shaky breaths. A Panic attack,It had been awhile since I'd had to deal with one of these, something I wasn't yet capable of dealing with on my own.

Papa sat next to me on the bed. "Look at me. See if you can copy my breaths." I knew the routine but I needed to hear it. Just like he knew I would be multitasking. So just in line with my peripheral vision he opened and closed his fingers in time with his breathing as well. I was able to calm down enough and nodded that he could stop. His cold hands caressed my forehead and cheek. It felt amazing. Comfort. I needed that. "Do you want a cuppa, or do you just want water? We could talk if-" I shook my head. I never talked about it, but he always asked.

"Maybe just water. It's still early. I have school in the morning." I needed to get back to sleep. He nodded absently, pushing a hand through his unusually long mop of light brown hair , thinking over something, but he didn't say anything about it. My father usually kept his hair short, a force of habit from when he was younger, but more and more lately I'd seen him let it go, along with the constant stubble on his cheeks. Stress. I wish I could say I wasn't contributing to it, but I knew it was more than that. I made a mental note to pay more attention, daughters needed to take care of their fathers.

"I'll be right back." He squeezed my hand and headed back out of my room. I listened carefully. The footsteps made it down the stairs and into the kitchen, but didn't stop. He went back to their room. I would die to know more than where he was in the house. To be able to hear their hushed voices. To hear what Da would say to Papa telling him I'd had the nightmare again. I just needed to know that he worried too. That my pain mattered to him. The footsteps returned to the kitchen. Papa was slamming the cabinets harder than necessary. Right. Maybe I didn't want to hear what Da had said after all.

I'm almost sixteen now. You'd think after almost ten years I'd have gotten over it enough to sleep through the night. You'd think I'd have given up on Da changing at all. You'd think a lot of things, and yet it was all the same. The famous Sherlock Holmes, nothing but an angry, insufferable, and closed off man in a big house, with a husband he didn't deserve and a daughter he practically refused to believe existed. How utterly boring.

I didn't sleep the rest of the night, I stared at my alarm until it went off and then started my day. I straightened my school uniform and contemplated my hair in the mirror. I had tamed most of my jet black curls but I still had time to straighten it if I wanted. No. I had a rehearsal later. I leaned down to grab my bag and head downstairs when I caught the edge of my scars in the mirror. The nightmare flashed to memory again. I picked up my shirt enough to see the rest of them, tracing with a finger. They'd never completely explained- I hear pounding up the stairs and quickly tuck my undershirt in again before a tall, dark haired and scrawny Irish girl appears in my doorway. Madeline James. My best friend.

"Are you coming? I have Oliver with me so we've got to get there a bit early. Sorry." Madeline's twin brother Oliver was in the debate club, which met a half hour before school. I could grab a snack on my way out and maybe make a little money before class.