Morphine

sixteen : words

The next week Mum tells me that we are leaving the continent. 

Leaving Dad. Going away without Dad. I want to protest. I want to dig deeper, but Mum sounds so determined. I want to confront him. I haven't spoken to him since the hospital and it's eating me alive. He's still my father. How can I possibly just make all these assumptions and judgements without knowing his side of the story?  

But Mum wants me to. She wants me to pack my things and be prepared because we are leaving. I'm not sure if Dad knows about this or if Mum has even discussed this with him.  

What I don't understand is how she can simply leave everything, believing the words that came out of her damaged, ex-coma patient daughter who doesn't know if she's paranoid yet or not. Believing the words. Words that can be made up, or unconsciously induced by your brain. Words that can be deliberately put inside your brain. Mum didn't see anything. Neither did I. But despite knowing that I suspect him, Dad isn't rushing in to explain and deny the whole thing. 

Our house has never been this quite before. It's not just an elephant in the room. The elephant's parents, siblings and friends are all in the room. There's barely any space for air or words.

I lounge on the sofa, flipping through the channels on the telly and enjoying the silence. Silence implies that no one is screaming. When people aren't screaming, it is because they are not in pain.

Or maybe I'm just putting words inside my brain.

 "What are you watching?" Milan settles down on the floor in front of me.

I stop pressing the button on the remote control when he says that. Unfortunately, it stops on a news channel. I'm afraid that I might see my face along with words such as "Deputy Commissioner's daughter recently kidnapped" or a newsreader saying things like "If the Deputy Commissioner's daughter is kidnapped TWICE but the kidnapper hasn't been found yet after so many years, imagine what could happen to your daughters."  

"Apparently news." I don't want Milan to think that I'm running away from news channels.

Milan leans his head against the sofa and turns to look at me. "You know where we're going right?"  

"Yes," I stare straight at the telly.  

"So you know that there's still the possibility of Cha-"  

"That possibility died." I cut him off.  

Milan just looks at me.  

"Why are we going to the States anyway? There are many other better countries in the world."

"Well," Milan smiles. "Mum still thinks that there's a possibility."  

"What makes her think that?" I snort.  

"You have to give him another chance, Meira. Mum wants you to be happy. And she thinks you were happy when Chase was around. We won't be moving there permanently, you know that, but she's doing it for you."  

Just thinking about Chase brings up all sorts of bottled up, distorted emotions. I was happy when I was with him, even if it was for an incredibly short time. The last I remember seeing him was near a park bench. I don't remember what we were talking about, but I remember that he was holding my hand and it was warm. The last time I remember hearing his voice was when he was begging me not to die. But later on he learned that I didn't die and that I came out of my coma. Why didn't he bother contacting me in anyway? He gave me nothing. He just left. Just like that. And it's been almost two months but still nothing.  

The only thing I can come up is with that I was too much. I was too much unnecessary drama in his life. Being with me would mean that he would also be in danger. Maybe he realised that sooner than I'd hoped. I'm not blaming him. He's smart. I'm relieved that he realised that. Just a goodbye would have been comforting though.