Dead and Gone [Alive and Shattered Sequel]

Chapter Twelve

"Dad?" I repeated, as if saying it out loud again would somehow make it more real. "Wha-what are you doing here?" I stuttered, blinking a few times, hoping I was hallucinating and my father wasn't actually standing in front of me.

But his image remained.

I hadn't seen my father in five years. Oddly enough, he didn't look much different. He did appear smaller than he had before. Not sickly ill, but it was clear that he'd dropped a couple pounds, and his hair had patches of grey.

Otherwise, he still looked like the successful cop he always had been. He looked over my shoulder into the room and raised his brows. Before he could walk in, I moved in front of the door and repeated the question, confusion still laced in my voice.

He may be my father, but I didn't need to let him in my room.

He sighed, his eyes falling to the floor before back at me. "One of my buddies at the station saw you at the bar and he called. I uh . . ." he paused. "I decided to see for myself if it is was true." He looked me over. "I never thought you would actually come back into town." He frowned, hurt lacing his voice. "You could have come stayed with me and not in this old dump. Why didn't you call me? We could have arranged something."

I blinked at him momentarily before a laugh escaped my lips. Not a whole-hearted deep belly laugh but more of a "you've got to be joking" scoff. I turned my back to him, hoping he'd just take the hint and leave.

Of course; he didn't.

"What's so funny?" He asked, his voice laced with confusion. I could picture the frown that would be on his face. At first, I didn't respond. I just ignored him and continued my quest to find my missing wallet. I flipped over the pillows on my bed. I could feel his eyes following me throughout the room while he waited for an answer. I picked up the comforter next, searching the sheets beneath it. "Dylan?" he asked, impatience leaking through.

"You wanna know what's so funny?" I questioned, tossing the comforter onto the bed in frustration. I turned to face him. "The fact that NOW you want to be my father-"

"Son-"

"Hell no," I threw a hand up, cutting him off. "You let me finish." I fume. "The fact that NOW you want to be my father, doesn't sit right with me." I stop, breaking into a mocking laugh. "You're about twenty years too late for that." I storm to the other side of the room, by the front door where my bag was and searched through it. "Where is that damn thing?" I shove my bag to the side, not finding the wallet in there.

"I will not stand for your disrespect! Whatever feelings you have, I am still your father and I demand your respect!" I turned and took a step towards him, fists clenching.

"See, that's your problem." I shouted, shoving my finger in his face. "You are always so damn demanding! You were always so demanding at work which is probably why none of your coworkers liked you. You were always demanding at home, expecting more of me than what I could give." I took a breath and stared scornfully. "And when I couldn't do whatever you needed me to, how did you react? You got angry and demanded even more! You want what you want and nothing else." I marched to the little side table by the bed and pulled roughly on the drawer, contents flying out.

"That is not fair!" He raised his voice, his face morphing into a deep red color. "I tried to be the best father I could, I tried to raise you like-"

"Raise me? Seriously?" I slowly started trudging toward the door, where he still stood. "How many parent teacher meetings did you go to?" He fell silent. "How many football games did you sit through? How many times did you sit down and ask how school was going?! Or even how I was doing!" The volume of my voice increased with each word

"You have no idea how hard I tried!" He forced his way into the room and shut the door. "When your mother-" he stopped himself, the subject still too painful for him to talk about.

"Don't use mom as an excuse for your crappy parenting." I returned to the drawer, scooping up the belongings. Something under the bed caught my eye. I reached down to find my wallet underneath. "It's about time," I mumbled to myself, snatching it.

"Losing her was one of the hardest things that I've ever had to go through," his voice softened. "I've never been able to get over it."

That struck a cord. It hit me, hard.

I shook my head, eyes welling up with tears created from pure despair and uncontrollable rage.

I walked to him; I stood right in front of the man I used to consider my father; and I stared at him.

"I know you're broken," I began, thinking of the exact moment he had uttered these words to me during Adena's funeral all those years ago. "But it was just a highschool romance."

A silent gasp left his lips and the pain in his eyes was unmistakable. He was visibly crushed, my words hitting him harder than they had hit me all those years ago. The room fell painfully silent as his eyes glossed over.

He moved his mouth to respond, but no words came out.

I shoved my wallet into my back pocket. "You know, I'd love to sit here and listen to you mutter your way through this touching father son moment but I have to go." I shoved past him, our shoulders colliding. He used the wall to steady himself as I left.

He didn't shout. He didn't chase after me and apologize. He didn't even beg me to listen or to stay.

My father did what he was best at.

He did nothing.

I stormed down the flight of stairs and past the front desk.

"Oh Dy-" I heard James start as I fled past him, but I ignored him. I shoved the front door open and as I crossed the threshold of the lobby, I noticed Grady's car peeling into the parking lot. My feet decided to take off before my brain even considered the idea.

I sprinted away from the parking lot and headed towards the woods behind the motel. I just needed a minute to myself. I could picture the conversation in my mind now. Grady would ask what was going on and what am I doing and how am I doing. I needed some time away from the constant lecturing and questions.

Because the truth was...

I wasn't doing well.

I wasn't "just fine" or "okay" as one would pretend to be when asked that question. In fact, I was the farthest thing from okay.

I was dead.

Grady's admission, Quinton's rage, and my father's unexpected visit had all come together and created a knife. One that had plunged into my heart and soul.

One that had killed me