Daddy issues || h.s

4.0

The pale petals of the cherry blossom tree drifted towards the ground just like snow from white skies on a winter's day. But this was not a winter's day, this was a summer's day, and the melancholy sight of the falling petals did nothing but drape a veil of sadness across the eyes that landed on them. They spread their pink bodies across the garden, and as they piled on top of each other the green grass was robbed of the sight of the blue skies above it. 

His eyes were drunk in the morning light, and as he stretched his muscles and pushed his curly hair out of his face, a small smile was spread on his lips, because he had yet to see the falling blossoms. 

The other side of the bed was cold, as if no one had ever slept there. But he knew that was not the truth, because he had heard her soft snores throughout the night, and felt her pulse beat beneath the sheets. And he had wished they would soon belong to someone else. 

The floorboards creaked beneath his feet as he went down stairs, the sound of the radio had fallen back to its usual shaky tones, and the smell of dark coffee tickled his nose. Abigail was stood there, a black dress draped around her body. 

 "Good morning," he said, his raspy voice stretching its legs for the first time that day. 

"Good morning to you too," Abigail answered, and a smile formed on her red lips. He walked over to her and kissed her cheek, a small hum leaving her as his lips touched her skin.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked, the scent of coffee and vanilla reminding him of the first days he spent with her. When they would go to small cafes and have endless infinite conversations about finite topics. Oh how divine those days had felt, how easy he had let himself fall for her. He had fallen for her, he had convinced himself that. It might have been nothing but an infatuation, but it had been real nonetheless.

"Yes, I did," she said, and her vanilla breath tickled his skin. 

In the early hours of the morning, with the shaky tones of music in the background, and with coffee staining their lips, their voices rose and fell in pace with each other as they once again explored empty subjects with never ending words. But at first light, hours and minutes have golden wings that carry them far faster than any other, and he soon felt her smell fade as she left him alone in the kitchen with nothing but empty coffee cups to remember her by.

Yet, the silvery hours of the day flew by, and his green eyes did not once drink in the sight of the falling petals. His mind was buried deep within the pages of happily ever afters, never once realising the story he read might soon be more relevant than he would have ever expected.

You might ask yourself why he did not see the cherry blossom tree sooner, but to Harry, the sight of its dancing branches had grown so familiar he had forgotten cherry blossoms only bloom a couple of weeks in spring. 

The day soon grew bronze wings, and the smell of coffee and vanilla once again tickled his nose. 

"Did you have a good day?" He asked her as she sat down beside him, and she nodded. She was smiling, and her cheeks glowed pink in the afternoon sun.

"Yes, I did." She answered. He waited for her to ask him back, but she never did. In stead, she asked him a question that made him wonder why he had not felt the absence of oranges in the fragrance of his morning. "Have you seen Adelaide today?" She asked, and the first petal blew past the windows.

"No, I haven't," he said, his eyes following the pale petal. His eyebrows knitted together, and his fingertips went cold as he felt her absence in his chest. "I can look for her upstairs if you want." He said, and Abigail nodded. A strange look was draped across her face, as if she already knew.

The creaking of the floorboards faded behind him as he walked up the stairs. The sound echoed against the walls, the empty rooms flinging the sound back at him as he searched for something long gone. 

He searched in the bathroom and in the bedroom, he searched in the office and in the laundry room, but the blue list had taken his lover, and he could not find her anywhere.

"I can't find her," he said as he left the empty rooms above.

"Harry," Abigail asked, "What date is it today?" Her hands were shaking, and her lips were pressed into a tight line as she awaited the answered.

"The eighteenth," He said, and a thousand winds were let loose in the room as the woman in front of him sighed. Her hands fell to rest in her lap, and her lips pouted as she let out a barely audible "oh."

"What?" He asked, the cold spreading from his fingers and throughout his body as yet another petal flew by the window.

"It the eighteenth, its always the eighteenth." Abigail whispered, and Harry felt the flowers inside of him scream for water.

"What? What always happens on the eighteenth?" His voice shook, the words so translucent he could see them shimmering in the air as they flew across the room.

"She disappears." Abigail answered, her eyes swimming in dark pools of dimmed stars.

"What do you mean she disappears?" he questioned, his lips trembling. "Where does she go, when will she be back?"

"I don't know. Last year she came home with feathers in her hair claiming she had been at the other side of the globe, tracking festivals along the American coastline. And the year before that she came home with salt on her skin and sand between her toes telling tales of how she had sailed to every single one of the Greek islands. I have no idea where she is this year, or whether she will ever come back. I don't know, I don't know." This was the first time he had ever heard her voice shake with emotion, but in the midst of the earthquake inside of him, he did not notice.

"And you just let her? You just fucking let her go!" His voice started as a whisper, but ended in a shout that rolled through the house, and made the hairs at the back of her neck rise.

"No, I do not let her go!" She shouted back, the pink in her cheeks deepening along with her rage. "You don't know what it is like, you don't know what she is like. I have done my best to raise her, and even though I love her more than anything in the whole fucking world, she makes it so incredibly had to do so." She stood up as she spoke, spitting out the words as she walked over to him.

"Did you know she was five years old when she first ran away from home. Five fucking years old. I was so worried I lay on the bathroom floor, vomiting as I cried, but the next day, she came back. She always came back. And eventually, I stopped worrying, because I knew she was able to take care of herself. I knew she would be okay, and she will, even if she one day decides never to comes back. So shut the fuck up, you don't know what she is like!" Tears ran down her cheeks as she screamed at him, and he felt the flowers inside of him loose their petals as wells opened up in his eyes, wanting to shed its water on the dying buds. But he couldn't, he couldn't water them. No matter how hard he tried, he could not water them without her.

"I know her better than you could ever guess!" He shouted at her. "And if you ever cared to listen to her for just a second, maybe you would find out why she ran away." They spit venom at each other, ignoring the fact that both their hearts were bleeding. 

"Did you listen to her? Did you find out why she ran away? Did you, did you?" She gasped for air, her lips sending silver bullets through his heart. 

"I'm going to find her," he whispered, his frozen hands pushing her out of his way as he left her alone to breathe in the snowflakes of the winter day between them.