Being Loved

Disclaimer: This is my second entry for @avaviolet 's #swmcontest

Being Loved

Everyone loves my dad. From the little puppies we pass in the streets, to the old ladies on the train. He's had the same happy go-lucky personality and radiant, blue eyes since he was a kid. That's what my mother fell for, when they were high school sweethearts. The carefree attitude, hypnotic eyes, and audacious smile. In general, people adore him. No one thinks he could possibly do anything immoral.

But they're wrong.

My dad is not the kind-hearted soul they all think he is. He's a monster with an atrociously convincing facade. If you ask my mom, she'll smile and say he's the perfect husband. If you ask me, I'll die a little inside, but call him the best dad in the universe.

With everyone, including my mother covering for him, I could never muster the courage to speak against him. Not to mention, he's the chief of police. Who would believe me if I told them Frank Green is an abusive asshole? That my "conservative-style" is due to his constant harassment. Or that the trauma-induced coma my mother is currently in was caused by him? They wouldn't because he would chuckle and fabricate an excuse, "Oh Elle, I warned you about lacrosse. Keepers end up with bruises, my love."

They would laugh and exclaim, "Ella Green, what a grand imagination you have!"

But because I never told a soul of the daily abuse my mother and I suffer, she's practically on her deathbed. 

The jerk tears up everytime he speaks of her. Everytime he retells the story of how he swerved to avoid an innocent deer and hit a tree. How his daughter is lucky to have escaped with just a broken leg. How saddened he is for his family. It makes me feel sick.

He would never admit it wasn't a tree. He would never tell them that he ran his own wife over out of pure anger. Or that I tried to stop him, and that's why I'm on crutches.

Today marks my mother's coma's six month anniversary and my seventeenth birthday. And I think I've finally mustered up the courage. Just seventeen years late.

•*•*•*•

I sit by the foot of my mother's bed and take her hand, "Please wake up mommy."

"I'm sorry I never said anything, but I was- am still scared. I think I'm going to say something today."

No response.

The dam breaks and a river of tears escapes. "I miss you and I miss your pregame pep talks. I miss baking cookies and our two-person dance parties. I miss you and I miss being loved."

Still, no response. Only the incessant beeping of the hospital machines.

After hours of silence, I plant a kiss to her frail cheek and make my way to my maternal grandmother's house. I've barely passed through the door when she sees my tear-ridden expression and begins to stand. I don't let her, "Granny, Dad- no, Frank! Has been lying to you."