Fallen Embers

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The main character is to your own choice. Whether it be you (the reader) or an OC. Whether she be female or he be male. It is entirely up to you. You read the story with your own interoperation, so each persons reading experience is different.



I hated the smell of smoke.

It was strong, and thick, it followed you around like a broken heart. It was simply unpleasant. I hated the smell of smoke, I always had.

Maybe because the smell of smoke meant the arrival of my father.

We were poor, we were sad. We were nobodies in the eyes of society. My father worked, always, every day and every night, seven days a week. At first I thought it was to support me, to support us. But as grew older, I realised it wasn't what it seemed.

The world wasn't black and white. Things weren't that simple.

My father didn't work to support us. He worked to bury his feelings. The anger, the resentment, the depression, the everything.

He worked to work through the pain of losing my mother.

He worked so much, so often. That I thought he'd never stop. He worked and worked and worked.

Until he had worked himself to death.

I was alone. I was ok. I wasn't ok. I wasn't alone. I was happy. I was sad.

I was lost.

And I still hated the smell of smoke.

He would come home, smelling so strongly of it, that I couldn't even smell the alcohol anymore. He would come home, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He would come home, angry, tired, sad.

He would come home and take it out on me.

He would scream, he would cry. He would stomp his feet and rub his eyes. He was so conflicted, so lost, that he didn't know what to do anymore.

He wouldn't hit, he wouldn't yell, he wouldn't do anything to me.

But that hurt more than anything. He wouldn't touch me. He would touch me.

He would simply sit there, he wouldn't move, he wouldn't eat.

Eventually, he wouldn't breath. But then he would, and then he wouldn't.

I hated the smell of smoke.

It was tragic irony that smoke would be my downfall, my end.

"Lung cancer?" I would laugh, I would cry. "Please tell my you're lying?"

And he would shake his head.

I would run, and run and run. I would never stop. I would keep on running. All the way home.

Home was empty, not a trace of anyone living there. Dust lined the countertops, the bin overflowed, and cigarette butts were scattered in the garden.

I hated the smell of smoke.

I hated the fact that mother had to died. I hated that my father had to kill himself. I hated that my father smoke, and I hated that he killed me.

I hated the smell of smoke more than anything.

But then, I didn't hate the smell of smoke anymore.

She was beautiful.

Hair the colour of the seas she admired.

Eyes as pale as the clouds she watched.

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